It’s been weird spending less time with Theo. We obviously still see each other when we’re with the team, but living across the hall from each other, we were together almost constantly. That meant if one of us was feeling off, we never made it very long before the other beat the truth out of us—figuratively, if not literally.
It takes more of an effort now—checking in with each other.
“What if I don’t go out with Fly and just come over?” he says. “Are you and Sarah doing anything? We could just…hang out.”
I quickly shake my head. “Don’t change your plans,” I say. “I promise I’m fine. But we need to do something with Holly this week. Charlie’s in Canada with her grandparents.”
He nods. “Got it. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we’ll figure something out.” He gives my shoulder another squeeze, then turns and jogs toward Fly.
It’s late enough when I pull into the driveway that I can’t be sure Sarah hasn’t already gone to bed.
I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and toe off my shoes, moving quietly just in case she has. The house smells faintly like paint and tea, a scent that already feels familiar. Like home.
At the end of the hall next to the kitchen, I peek up the stairs that lead to Sarah’s studio. The door is closed, the light still on, so she must still be awake. I make my way up,knocking when I reach the top. Sometimes she doesn’t hear my knocks—if she has her AirPods in and she’s actively painting, I’m not sure she’d hear the smoke detector going off. But tonight, she calls a soft, “Come in,” and I push the door open.
Sarah is standing in front of the final piece she’s been working on, arms wrapped around her middle. The rest of the pieces for the show aren’t here anymore, so she must have taken them to the gallery while I was out of town. The space feels bigger without them.
Sarah looks at me over her shoulder. “Did you win?”
I lean against the door jamb. She usually keeps an eye on scores, but with how distracted she is, I’m not surprised she hasn’t tonight.
“We did,” I say, and she smiles.
“Good.” She’s barefoot on the hardwood, her toes a navy blue that matches the Jaguars logo on the t-shirt she’s wearing.Mine.Just like I guessed. She has it knotted at her waist, and I spend a little too long noticing the curve of her hips, the way her leggings make her legs look a million miles long. There’s a streak of blue paint running down the side of her neck, disappearing into the collar of her shirt.
“Everything else is already at the gallery?” I ask.
She nods. “All but this one. I only finished it tonight. Which, Second Light wasn’t thrilled when I told them. And it definitely isn’t ideal to hang something so fresh. But I had to get it right.”
“They’re worried about it being fully dry?”
She nods. “I did this one in acrylic, so it should be fine. But ideally, it should sit here for three weeks before I move it anywhere.”
The piece she’s studying is one I’ve seen her working on alot since the wedding. I can’t pinpoint what’s different about it now, but I’ll never question Sarah’s eye.
It reminds me of reviewing game tape—replaying the same sequence over and over again until the mistake finally reveals itself. An untrained eye might never see it. Never recognize the moment things went wrong.
Sarah stretches, propping her hands on her hips as she arches her back, then she tilts her head toward the canvas. “How does she look to you?” she asks.
“How does she look?”
“Her mood,” Sarah clarifies. “What does it look like she’s feeling?”
I study the painting, suddenly nervous that I might disappoint Sarah if I don’t see what she wants me to see, but then she nudges me with her shoulder.
“Stop stressing,” she says. “There’s no right or wrong answer here.”
Easy for her to say, but I keep my eyes on the painting, reading the emotion etched onto the woman’s face. “She looks…resolute,” I say. “Like she isn’t trying to hide how she feels anymore.” Like the rest of Sarah’s work, the woman’s face is photorealistic and fills up the middle third of the canvas. But her hair is a sea of rippling, shifting color.
She turns toward me, her shoulder brushing my arm as she does. It’s completely accidental—a totally harmless touch. But it still sends a sharp pang of awareness through me, and I feel a sudden craving to step closer, to pull her into my arms. We’ve been so good since the wedding. With the exception of all the t-shirts she’s stolen, we haven’t broken the rules once. But every time I’m around her, it feels like the tension keeps ratcheting up, tighter and tighter. I’m starting to wonder which one of us is going to crackfirst.
“That was a good answer,” she says, looking up to catch my gaze. We’re standing close enough for me to see the flecks of gold around the edges of her irises, the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. “It took me long enough, but I think I’m finally happy with it.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, my voice low. “You should be happy with it.” My eyes move to the streak of paint on her neck, and I can’t keep myself from smiling.
“What?” she says. “Why are you smiling?”
I lift my hand and slide a single finger down her neck, tracing the paint until I reach the hollow above her collarbone. “Blue paint,” I say. I hook my fingertip around her collar and tug it down just slightly, revealing the rest of the smudge. “It’s the same color as your shirt.” I lift an eyebrow. “Or should I saymyshirt?”
