He sighed. “No, what were you going to say?”
I hadn’t been about to say anything. I’d just instinctively tried to fill the silence. Although his sigh probably meant he didn’t really want to hear what I had to say, I jumped into the next topic that came to mind.
“You know that painter, Edwin Morris? I took his class last summer. You came to the picnic with me at the end.”
“Is he the one whose wife looks like a skeleton?”
“She doesn’t look like a skeleton.”
“Yes, she does. She has those cheekbones and weirdly large eyes.”
I sighed. “Okay, so she has a face that’s…memorable. Anyway, Edwin Morris died.”
Sean’s brow furrowed, like he had no idea why I’d brought that up. “Oh. What happened?”
“I don’t know. There was an article in the newspaper, but it didn’t say. Grandma Colleen figures it was a heart attack.”
“Probably. Was he old?”
“Not really. He was in his sixties.”
“Old enough, I guess.”
Wrapping my hands around my mug, I sighed again. “Yeah, I suppose.”
Silence crept between us again and I found myself gazing at the painting on the dining room wall. It wasn’t a Morris, it was one of mine, but I’d painted it while taking his class. We’d gone to Salishan Cellars, a lovely winery in the neighboring town of Echo Creek, and painted one of the vineyards. Instead of capturing the whole landscape, I’d focused on a small section of vine with plump grapes glistening with early morning dew.
“Are you upset about this or something?” Sean asked.
“Oh, um…” I sat up in my chair and blinked a few times. “Actually, yes. He was a little bit like a mentor. I learned a lot from him. And I’ve always loved his work.”
He made a noncommittal noise.
“Anyway, there’s a celebration of life at his gallery on Saturday. I was thinking about going.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. To pay my respects. It’s open to the public.” I hesitated to ask the question on my mind because I had a feeling he was going to say no. But I didn’t want to go alone. “Would you come with me?”
Getting up from the table, he groaned. “On Saturday? It’s my day off.”
“Right, which means you could come with me. We won’t stay long.”
“Fine, but in and out. Funerals creep me out.”
“It’s not so much a funeral as a—”
“I gotta get to work.” He put his mug in the sink and picked up his lunch bag.
I didn’t reply. Just watched while he put on his shoes and grabbed his coat. He left with a mumbled goodbye.
“Bye,” I said to the closed door. “Have a good day.”
Suddenly overwhelmed, the feeling washed over me like a cloudburst on a previously sunny day. Gripping my tea, I closed my eyes, wishing I could open them and find myself somewhere else. Not on the cusp of a life-shattering choice.
But I couldn’t keep grasping at something that wasn’t there. I didn’t have a boyfriend; I had a roommate who gave me emotional whiplash. Did he even care about me anymore? It seemed like he had, once.
The implications of that train of thought were so overpowering, I had to push it all aside. A decision point was coming, and I’d face it. But not two minutes before I had to leave for work. I had a bunch of teenagers to educate.
