It took a few minutes before either of our brains started working again. I lifted her hips, my cock sliding out of her as she shifted to the side and settled next to me.
The moment my mind started working again, all I could think was—what the hell was I doing?
There was something different about this with Avery and Mateo. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever experienced with other people before. That scary feeling I had with Mateo came roaring back as Avery sprawled out on top of me.
“You’re thinking about something,” she murmured. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong with this or us,” I said quickly. “I just . . .”
I trailed off. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to get deep.
“Tell me. I want to know. Talk to me,” she urged.
I blew out a slow breath. “I just don’t know where I fit in anymore. I don’t know what I want exactly. So many people have told me I’m at the height of my career, and yet I just want to walk away from it all. I woke up one day and asked myself if I was happy—and I wasn’t.”
Avery let out a soft hum and wrapped her arms around my chest, resting her head at the center. “So that’s why you came to Whynot? But aren’t you planning on going back in a few weeks?”
I didn’t even want to think about that now. It was hard to imagine leaving Whynot while Avery was in my arms.
“I’ll need to decide by then if I’m going back or not. Regardless, I’m off for the season. I’ve pissed a lot of people off, I’m sure. I’m not really sure what’s going to happen with my career. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t care.”
“Is it that you don’t care or is it that you’re avoiding confrontation?”
I wrinkled my nose, sliding my gaze down to the top of her head. She smiled against my chest without looking up.
“I’ve been there,” she said. “I know how it feels. I also know how it feels to wonder where you fit in with what you do. Being an artist, everything I do is dependent on how I feel. I have to be in the right headspace to create art, and if I’m not, I can’t even pick up a paintbrush. Everything in the world feels bleak and I’m left wondering if I’ll ever make art again. That’s how it was when my dad died.”
My hand settled on her side and I rubbed her gently up and down. “What changed? All the art I’ve seen from you is beautiful.”
“Well, when he died, there were a lot of life changes that happened for me at once. I moved back to the town I swore I’d never live in. I took over his gallery and the expectation to know how to run a business fell on my shoulders. My brothers got a lot thrown their way too. And on top of it, my mom lost it. She still isn’t whole. I don’t think she ever will be. She never imagined a world without my dad in it. Hell, I didn’t either.”
She drew in a shaky breath, her arms tightening around me.
“I couldn’t create anything for the first two months. All I had room for was action. To learn how to take over things, to be therefor my family, to move into a new place. I wasn’t sure I’d ever actually be an artist again. I thought I’d lost my spark.”
“I can’t ever imagine you not painting.”
“I didn’t either until then. I wondered if I’d been lying to myself about being an artist. I went to school for it, which felt silly, but I reached for my dreams because of my dad. I’d sold a few pieces by then, but I convinced myself I was a fake.”
A soft hum filled my throat. Whenever I recalled my summers visiting Whynot, if I thought about Avery, it was remembering her always creating something. Drawing, painting, making pottery out of mud. The need to create had always been there for her.
“It was a dark time. But then, I had a day with nothing to do. Nothing. I sat on the floor in my living room and stared at the clock my dad gave me years ago when I said I wanted to become an artist, and I finally cried. It was like a dam broke, and all of my pain and sadness and anger and frustration rushed out. I had to do something with it. I couldn’t just sit there anymore. And this pressure I’d put on myself to be something I wasn’t disappeared. I didn’t have the strength to keep feeling like a fraud anymore, so I let it go. I picked up a paintbrush.”
“And you made art again.”
“I did.” She tilted her head and looked up at me. “Everything ebbs and flows. Sometimes your passion for something disappears. Sometimes it needs to so that when it comes back, you’re reminded why you loved it in the first place. The art I created after my dad passed away made enough money so I could rebuild parts of the gallery and studio. I was able to fund community classes and discovered I had a love for teaching. That collection ended up in a few magazines and on the walls of people with way more money than I could ever dream of. So even though he was gone, he was still there for me. My art was stillthere for me. I never lost it. It just needed rest. My heart needed space for grief. It still needs space for grief.”
I swallowed hard and looked up at the ceiling. “The thing is—hockey was never that for me. I do love it. I’m good at it. I got really damn lucky with how my career ended up. But it’s never fulfilled me the way your art fulfills you.”
“What does fulfill you then? What brings you joy?”
My heart skipped a beat. I knew what brought me joy, but it wasn’t anything more than a silly hobby.
Avery sat up slightly, smoothing her hand up my chest. “I just felt every muscle in your body tense.”
I blew out a breath, trying to relax. She was far too observant for her own good. I had a feeling I’d never be able to hide from Avery. Not really, anyway.
“What is it?” she murmured.
