I run a hand through my hair, lean back in my chair. “What about it?”
“How’s it doing?” She shifts on the stool, one foot dangling, like she’s ready to run. “Seemed busy when I got here.”
“It’s surviving. Just like all of us.”
She makes a little sound of affirmation. “Where’s your Bronco? I didn’t see it in the yard.”
I grimace, my chest pinching. “Sold it.”
Her eyes are wide. “You loved that Bronco.”
I did. A classic 1966 cherry-red Bronco. Restored by my own hands.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Well, things change.”
Silence engulfs us as we look at each other. Even Zelda’s staring.
“What about you?” I ask before she can pry further. She’s pushed me, and it makes me want to push her. “You plan to paint while you’re here?”
She won’t. Bell’s always been superstitious about her work. No one sees her paintings until the very end. Not even me.
“Luka thinks I should.”
Goddamn if my shoulders don’t get tight. It’s what I thought. She’s moved on.
“Luka?” I fight to keep a cool head even as jealousy slices deep. Even as I keep a death-grip on my fucking fork, wishing it were Luka’s neck.
Is he the asshole who takes care of her now? I wasn’t ready to give up the title of husband three years ago, and I still mourn its loss. The idea of someone else taking it over stings.
“My new agent,” she says.
A loud breath escapes me.
Thank Christ.
“Anyway.” She picks up her wineglass and drains it. “I haven’t painted anything really worthwhile, since—” Face flushing, she cuts herself off.
“Since you left?” I can’t stop from directing my annoyance, my anger at her.
With a sigh, she sets her fork down. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too hard.” She shakes her head, eyes fluttering closed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That sounds about right. You not wanting to talk.” A wave of melancholy sweeps over me.
“I know I left. But you left too. In your own way.” Her voice is a hollow void of emptiness.
“Whatever you have to tell yourself to make it better.”
“Fuck you, Hank.” Fire flashing in her amber eyes, Bellamy pushes back from the island. Zelda leaps into action, pacing around the table, her anxious, insistent whines filling the kitchen.
“This was a stupid idea,” Bellamy says, exhaling a dark little sob. “You staying here.”
Guilt rolls through me. Dammit, I’m an asshole.
The tear that tracks down her cheek almost breaks my heart in half.
