“I just have a lot of unpacking to do.” I look up at my brother and his best friend, struck by the way they’re both standing there, staring at me.
“Do you want some help unboxing?” Weston asks, his voice bright—much brighter than the look of horror on my brother’s face. Clearly, my brother doesn’t like this idea.
And considering I have no idea what’s even in the boxes…
“I think I’ll just start later. I’m really tired.” I give them both my best smile, though it doesn’t take long to realize that I am, indeed, exhausted.
“That’s fair,” Parker says. “I guess we’ll get out of your hair then.”
“You’re the best,” I tell him. “Seriously, Parker. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you these past few weeks.”
Something softens in his expression. “Yeah, well. What else are big brothers for?”
I nod. “I’ll call you sometime this week.” I weave through the mess to see them to the door. Weston trails behind Parker, andI can’t help but notice the way he’s stealing glances at me. It’s almost as if he needs to say something.
But he never does.
Well, other than to tell me to have a good evening.
I close the door behind them, then spin around, resting my back against the wall. Exhausted, I take in the chic apartment. It really is a nice place, but now that all my things are here…
I’m going to have to do somemajordecluttering.
With a sigh, I head for the kitchen to get a drink of water, and as I do, I notice an envelope sitting on the counter with my name on it. With an intrigued frown, I pick it up, and tear it open. It’s a housewarming card.
Really, Parker?
However, as I open it and a gift card falls out, I can’t help but smile down at the words.
Brittany,
Please promise me that you’ll replace the bear creature on the wall. Enjoy your new place, and don’t be a stranger. I expect to see the replacement within a week.
Best,
Weston
A giggle slips from my lips as I set the card down and pick up the gift card. It’s such a thoughtful gesture…
And it leaves me feeling giddy.
Three days later, I’m standing in the entrance of an art supply store, clutching the gift card from my brother’s best friend like it’s some kind of lifeline.
The automatic doors slide shut behind me, and the scent of wood, paint, and possibility envelops me. It’s been years since I’ve set foot in a store like this. The thought makes my stomach twist with something between anticipation and guilt.
Paintbrushes in all sizes stand in neat rows, their wooden handles gleaming under fluorescent lights. Canvas boards and stretched canvases lean against the shelves. Tubes of paint—acrylics, oils, watercolors—arranged by color create a rainbow effect that makes my fingers itch to create something.
“Need help finding anything?” A store employee appears beside me, his name tag reading “Assistant Manager.”
“No, thanks,” I say, offering a polite smile. “Just browsing.”
He nods and moves away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and memories.
The last time I painted was before I met Cal—a small landscape of Central Park in autumn, all fiery oranges and deep reds. My mom has it hanging in her living room, though Cal once commented that it looked “amateurish.” After that, my brushes slowly migrated to the back of the closet, and then into a storage box, and then … nowhere. I don’t even know if I still have them.
My fingers trail along the shelf of canvases, settling on a medium-sized one that feels right. Not too ambitious, but big enough to make a statement. Next come the brushes. I grab a variety pack made by my favorite brand, filled with different sizes and shapes.
The paint is harder to choose. I stare at the colors, each one speaking to me in a different way. The dark blues remind me of the lake my dad used to take Parker and me to when we were kids. The warm yellows bring to mind summer afternoons sprawled on a blanket in the park, reading case studies for class. The deep reds, well, those just make me think of the wine I drank with Weston that night at the Italian restaurant.
