The containers of food I busied myself with cooking earlier and stored away for Evie tonight weigh heavily in my hands. Only one of the two lights is on in the main space, keeping it dim. I double-check that the door’s locked behind me before making for the stairs and following the sound of music. The higher I get, the louder it becomes, until I can make out each individual word being sung and the out-of-pitch voice carrying alongside them.
I pause outside Evie’s studio and stretch my neck, hoping to free the tension from it enough that I can concentrate on my niece for the next couple of hours. She knows I’m on my way and most likely only seconds away, but I still need to take a minute.
Every street I passed on my way here was a reminder that I was heading in the wrong direction.
There’s no one that I love as much as my niece, so why does it feel like I made a mistake by coming here? I shouldn’t want to be showing up at another woman’s door. This is the only place where I should be spending my time.
Yet no matter how much I tell myself exactly that, I still want to fill my night with a messy apartment and the taste of Brielle’s lips. Fuck. She’s so full of light and excitement and this intoxicating spirit that I want nothing more than to sink into. It’s as terrifying as it is beautiful.
Brielle’s a siren on the shore of the last piece of land on Earth, and I’m nothing more than a famished sailor who thought I was going to die alone at sea. She doesn’t so much as need toopen her mouth, and I’m diving into the water with my heart already in my hands.
I slam my fist against the studio door before I can change my mind. Soon enough, Evie’s pulling it open and waving me inside.
“Please tell me there’s meatballs in those containers,” she pleads.
Lifting the containers, I shake them a bit. “Of course there are.”
“You’re the best.”
Evie snags the food from me and carries it over to the small circular table she thrifted last week. The chairs are mismatched from two separate dining sets, with one painted a deep blue and another an unstained wood that wobbles on the back left leg. I frown at them, already prepared to offer to buy her something better when she interrupts my train of thought.
“I can smell the judgment coming off of you right now, Uncle. Not everything needs to be perfectly aesthetic. This is anartisticspace.”
Dropping a hand to the back of the chair in the worst condition, I give it a shake and watch it nearly topple over. “What happens when one of the legs snaps off while you’re sitting on it? You could break your arm. “
“Then I’ll go to the emergency room and get a cast. You need to relax.”
She snaps the lid off the first container and shoves it into the microwave. The quiet beeps fill the studio before I speak over them.
“You don’t need to be frugal.”
“It isn’t about money. I’m trying to be independent while also expressing myself. That’s what Brielle does, and I doubt you’ve ever given her a lecture on her spending habits.”
I’m sure the comment isn’t meant to be jarring, but it stuns me long enough that my silence has become noticeable. Themicrowave beeps, and Evie swaps the containers before shutting the door and glancing over her shoulder at me.
“You haven’t, have you? Please tell me you didn’t go all Dad on her,” she groans, disappointment painting her features.
“I didn’t lecture her about anything. The two of you aren’t comparable here. Your situations are very different.”
Yeah, that’s a decent enough cover. Though I still feel like shit for covering my ass instead of telling her that I’m usually too busy kissing Brielle to lecture her on what she does with her money. Not that I would do that if I weren’t kissing her.
It’s not my job.
Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, I’ll believe it.
Evie turns on her heel and folds her arms over the flopping shoulder buckle of her denim overalls. “Even so, just don’t. I like her and would prefer if you didn’t come off like an overprotective father and scare her away.”
“I don’t plan on scaring her off, Evie,” I say firmly, unable to hide the bite in the words.Nor behaving like a father to her.
She hears it loud and clear and whistles low and long. “Are you hangry?”
I laugh under my breath, slowly relaxing. “A little.”
“Let’s eat, then.”
I let her lead and stand back to observe as she serves the food up on the brown biodegradable plates she made a very big deal of purchasing before moving into the studio. Matching forks get stabbed into the meatballs and pasta before she’s setting our meals on the table and plopping into the wonky chair. Only once I’m sure she isn’t going to go crashing to the floor do I join her.
“See? You were overreacting,” she states cheerfully.
