“Ever since I came back. Did he not tell you?” I tilt my head.
He shrugs. “He told me that he sees you, but you know Joe.”
“He doesn’t say much, and when he does, it’s usually painfully right,” I mutter, thinking about our conversation yesterday morning.
Milo nods. “He does light up when he talks about you.”
“Joe lights up?” I tease.
“Well, he looks as happy as a grumpy old man can look,” he amends with a grin.
I smile. “I’m pretty fond of him, too.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t do it for you,” I say, as I straighten my smile back out into a thin line.
“I know, but I’m still grateful.”
“Now, if you could convince him to get that new hip, that would be helpful,” I mutter.
“You and I both know he’s too stubborn for any convincing.” Milo laughs.
I look up at Milo and this moment feels warm, easy. I step back and adjust my cardigan. “I’ve got to go get ready to paint.”
I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down. “Yeah. Enjoy your mushrooms and paint fumes.”
“I will,” I say before I walk away.
About an hour later, I’m standing in front of my mirror, unsure of my reflection and what the girl within it is trying to tell me.
She seems in between.
Wearing frumpy jeans with holes in the knees and a Dusty Hollow High Volleyball T-shirt tucked in the front of them. She looks back at me, her brown eyes wide, before she tucks her hair behind her ears. I walk closer to her.
“What do you want, Sadie?” I ask.
Her lips tremble, but she seems uncertain if she should say it out loud. Then she sighs and disappears from the mirror as I walk into my living room.
I glance around, fully realizing what I’ve committed myself to. The walls seem as if they go on forever and . . .
I hate painting.
But I hate these white walls more.
I startle when there’s a knock at the front door.
I take a deep breath, walking through my small foyer, opening it to reveal Grant holding a large pizza box and wearing a wide grin that wrinkles his green eyes. “Mushrooms and pineapple,” he says.
I smile. “If you hate it, I have cereal.”
“What’s not to love about fungus and fruit?” he teases.
I step to the side and gesture for him to come in. He walks through toward the kitchen. “So, what room are we starting in?”
I close the door and follow. “I actually have no idea. I was hoping you might be able to suggest what’d be best.”
He sets the pizza down on the counter before he leans against it, crossing his arms. “What’s your favorite room?”
