“Just ignore them, Hannah. They are going to make up stories about us regardless. I’m just walking you to your car. It’s no big deal.”
Of course, he knows what I’m thinking. We continue walking in silence, pausing occasionally so Morgan can sniff the ground.
“Tell me about the gallery,” Logan says, breaking the silence.
“Umm okay.” I guess this is a safe topic. “My mom opened the gallery in 2005. She loves art but never actually did more than dabble in different mediums. She likes to support local talent, but we also feature well known Canadian artists. She has a deep love for The Group of Seven whose art was inspired by direct contact with nature.”
Reaching out, he gives my hand a quick squeeze, then releases it.
Smiling, he says, “I know that part, Hannah, I was here. I remember how excited your mom was when she got her first sale. I don’t want the spiel you give customers or what I can read on your website. Tell me about what you do there.”
“Why?” I ask, scrunching my nose.
“I’m just making conversation.” He shrugs casually.
I feel the exact opposite of casual.
“I don’t know what to say. I started working there full time the summer after – Dad died.” I refuse to say after he broke up with me.
“It was different than when I had worked there part time during high school. It took a while, but I slowly made changes and made it my own.”
“What changes did you make?”
“Initially, I just rearranged the displays. I wanted to make it more appealing to the younger people who visit. I removed the clutter and went more minimalist. Mom always had it packed full. Then I began to feature art that makes you feel something. You know like when you see it from across the room and you are immediately drawn to it. Art that pushes boundaries and makes you think. Of course, art is subjective so not every person is going to be drawn to the same things. That has been my biggest challenge. I always make sure to showcase a young artist from the college. I love displaying functional art like pottery andjewellery. My cupboards at home are full of clay bowls and mugs. We have amazing local fabric artists.”
I look over to Logan and see he’s listening intently.
“I’m sorry. I’m rambling,” I say embarrassed.
“Don’t’ be sorry, I want to know. Do you still paint?”
“I do, but I prefer mixed media now. I enjoy layering different mediums and textures to create something unexpected and unique. I teach sometimes,” I share shyly.
“That’s awesome, Hannah. You would be an amazing teacher. Who are your students?”
I feel my body heat. His praise affects me in a way that I don’t want to examine too closely.
“I have a studio above the gallery. I host an after-school art club on Wednesdays. I also offer art classes at the long-term care home a few times a year,” I tell him.
When I chose to study psychology in university, I was drawn to the idea of becoming an art therapist one day. I love the idea of people expressing their feelings and processing trauma through art. I’ve considered going back to school more than once in the past few years, especially since so many courses are offered online now. Maybe someday.
“That sounds incredibly rewarding.”
“It is. I really enjoy teaching, especially preteens. They are still curious, but they aren’t afraid to tell you what they think,” I say with a laugh.
I can’t believe how much I have shared with him in such a short period of time. I forgot how easy he is to talk to. I’ve never known another man who listens as attentively as Logan does. I’ve missed this.
Before I know it, we are at my jeep in front of the gallery. I don’t know why I feel compelled to invite him inside and show him my accomplishments. I quickly shake that idea from my mind.
“Well, this is me.” I point towards the jeep and use the remote to unlock it.
Logan steps around me to open my door, then moves back to let me get in and hands me my bags. I slide into my seat and place my small purchases and flowers on the seat next to me with my purse.
“Hannah?”
“Yeah?” I turn to look up at him.
“Thank you.” He leans in, resting his arm on the door, and softly kisses my cheek.
