So many first attempts morphed either into Penelope’s features or something that reminded Lucia of her. For crying outloud, she’d even doodled a picture of a piece of tiramisu on a plate.
She sometimes swore she could feel Penelope’s touch, her fingertips brushing against her cheek or along the back of her neck.
She kept telling herself: just do this first, then call her, but something always jumped the line, and eventually, the silence—the stillnessshe’dstarted—only grew bigger and bigger until she had to look away, afraid it would swallow her whole.
Hence, the emotional journaling piece.
She was stuck. And if she didn’t move soon, her inability to function like a normal human being might cost her everything—her relationship with Francesca, her career, and whatever fragile, beautiful thing had begun to bloom with Penelope.
They hadn’t even talked about what they were, yet here Lucia was, stuck in the quicksand of her own making and unable to get the fuck up and do something.
A hard knock on her door rattled Lucia, and she dropped her brush.
“Shit,” she grumbled and picked it up before lumbering to the door.
“Open the goddamned door, Lucy,” Francesca’s voice rang through the wood, followed by another loud knock.
She pulled at the handle, and before she could say anything, Francesca waltzed inside.
Lucia shut the door, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Now is not—”
“Hush,” Francesca said, her voice soft, distracted.
Lucia looked up and noticed that Francesca had stopped in front of her journaling painting.Great.
“This is…painful,” Francesca said after a moment.
“It’s not that bad.” Lucia stepped next to her.
“No, it’s excellent. I wasn’t talking about the quality of the painting.”
“Oh.”
Francesca looked at Lucia. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Go wash up a bit. I’ll make us something to drink.”
“Wash up? Am I three years old or what?”
“Just go. Refresh yourself a bit. Sometimes that helps to clear your head of the stupor it’s fallen into.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“Don’t be so flippant, Lucy.”
With a sigh, Lucia stalked into the half bath and washed up.
Five minutes later, they stood in Lucia’s kitchenette—where she had prepared tea for her and Penelope—and sipped their drinks.
A stillness settled between them.
Francesca’s gaze drifted over the half-finished canvases and the streaks of color staining Lucia’s palms. Something in her expression softened. “You don’t have to do this,” she said after a few minutes.
“Paint? I think I do.”
Francesca gave a soft laugh. “No. Being with me, helping me with all my ventures—especially since I continue to strike out.”
