Forgot. As if men like that ever forgot. But I wanted to believe him. Needed to.
I studied him while he crossed the kitchen, grabbing his cap from the counter. His movements were casual, but his shoulders carried a tightness I’d started to recognize. He was trying to look relaxed for my sake, but it was an act.
“You don’t really think they forgot,” I said softly.
His smile ticked up, but the humor was thin. “Well in this case no news feels like good news. I’ll take what I can get.”
I wanted to push, but the words stuck. It was easier to let him keep pretending.
He must have sensed my hesitation, because his voice gentled. “Don’t worry, babe. We’re working on it. Spence too. We’ll come up with something soon.”
Wondering if he believed what he said, my grip tightened around the mug. “You told Spence?”
“Yeah. Long story, but I kinda had to. He won’t say anything to Waylan or Coulter. You’ve got my word on that. But he knows what’s at stake, and he wants to help.” His voice was steady, like he was laying a brick wall between me and the fear.
As much as telling others terrified me, some of the pressure in my chest eased. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that he wasn’t carrying this alone—that I wasn’t carrying it alone.
“You act like you live here now,” I teased, nodding toward his boots and dry bag by the door.
He smirked, more genuine this time. “Guess I do. You complaining?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Good,” he said simply, but the way his gaze lingered on me made my stomach flip.
We fell into an easy silence, the kind that was becoming more common between us. The kind that felt deeper than it should, given we were barely past introductions when all this started. Trauma had shoved us into intimacy faster than ordinary life ever would’ve, and now it felt impossible to imagine my little house, or my life, without him.
I wrapped my hands tighter around the warm ceramic of my mug and breathed in deep. My nerves had finally settled enough that the idea of painting didn’t feel impossible anymore. The urge was back—sharp, insistent—the need to put brush to canvas, to lose myself in color and shape instead of fear. Maybe today, I’d try.
Kai’s keys jingled. He grabbed his wallet from the counter and slung his cap back on his head. “I’ve gotta run. Charter leaves in an hour and I gotta stop to grab lunch on the way.”
“Okay,” I said, wishing I could keep him anchored here. The bungalow felt safer with him in it.
He paused in the doorway, like he’d read my thought. “I’ll be back as fast I can,” he said, shifting a glance at my sketchbook. “Good luck on the turtle.” His smile was small, but real this time.
“I’ll do my best. They’re complicated creatures,” I called after him, surprising myself with the lightness in my voice.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes crinkling. “The best kind.”
Ha. He was a complicated creature. I never knew what he was really thinking.
One thing I did know was that when he was gone, I felt emptier without him. I sat staring at the sketch, my pencil hovering, tip trembling. I took a deep breath and let the faint lines take shape.
The turtle wasn’t much at first, but the details brought it to life. While I sketched the contours of its flippers, my phone dinged. Kai checking in made me smile, even if his reminder to keep the doors locked was unnerving.
I swallowed down the uneasy feeling and turned back to the turtle. Soon the pencil and sketch pad weren’t enough. I pulled out my paints, unscrewing jars that had sat untouched for days, the faint chemical tang filling the air. My brushes felt strange at first, stiff from disuse, but the moment color hit canvas, something in me cracked open. Cobalt for the strip of sky above the horizon. Cerulean blue for the sea. A wash of ochre for the shell.
I lost track of time in the rhythm—dip, stroke, rinse, repeat. The tight coil in my chest eased with each layer of color. I wasn’t painting fear. I wasn’t painting loss. I was painting sunlight, simple and ordinary, and it felt like medicine.
My hand slowed eventually, fatigue setting in, but when I stepped back, the canvas glowed. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but it was proof: I wasn’t broken.
I leaned against the counter, brush dangling from my fingers, and for the first time since that awful night, I felt like myself again. Not a victim. An artist.
Minnesota felt far away then, a different life. Winters where the air froze your nostrils shut, where I huddled by radiators and dreamed of sunlight that lasted longer than an afternoon. I’d thought the Keys would be freedom. And they were, in a way. But no postcard had ever shown the kind of danger that could come with paradise.
I rinsed the brushes, lined them up to dry, and dropped into the chair with a sigh. My pulse beat slow, steady. For the first time in days, I was almost calm.
Almost.
