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“The glass from the window shattered and sliced a few veins.” He said. “The doctors got to me just in time, but they told me the nerve damage to my arm was so severe that I might never play again.”
I reached out a tentative hand to touch the scar. His breath caught in his throat as if he were reliving the tragedy.
“So that’s why you’re not playing.”
He shook his head.
“I made a full recovery.” He said. “But I took James’ words to heart and quit the team.”
“What did your dad say about it?”
He laughed.
“You’ve seen how strained we are.” He glanced at me. “He hated it, but I didn’t care. James told me to live my life, so I did.”
I smiled as my fingers traced the jagged edge of the scar.
“He’d be proud of you.”
“I hope so.” He whispered, focused on my movements.
“You’re living your life.” I said. “What’s not to be proud of?”
The silence between us was like a warm embrace, wrapping us in a cocoon of tranquility. It left a soft rhythm of our breath.
“You’re doing the same thing.” He said. “You’re living life scared.”
No one ever told me that before. The air hung heavy with apprehension as his words lingered in my mind. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach.
“What do you mean?” I asked, meeting his gaze, searching for understanding.
His expression softened. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.
“I don’t want to upset you.” He said, his voice tinged with regret. “You’re capable of incredible things, but you’re holding yourself back.”
“Holding myself back from what?”
“Your feelings for me.”
My breath caught in my throat at his words. A surge of unfamiliar emotions welled up inside of me as I struggled to digest his observation.
“What?”
It was all I could muster. My eyes were wide with disbelief. However, he refused to look away. His gaze burned into mine with an intensity that left me feeling vulnerable.
“The painting.” He said, taking a step forward. “I know nothing about art, but I could tell what it was about.”
My heart pounded in my chest. The weight of his words pressed down on me. I was struggling to breathe. I wanted to bury it beneath layers of denial. However, it all made sense.
The painting, the two figures on the edge of the bridge - Josh and Asher. The figure in the middle was me and my inability to choose. Asher was the darkness and Joshua the light. How had I missed the symbolism behind my creation? It was as if my feelings had changed within a second.
“I have to go.” I whispered, my voice inaudible over the pounding of my heart.
Before he could respond, I turned and fled into the night. But no matter how fast I ran, Asher’s words rang in my ear like a haunting melody.
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35
