Reed doesn’t look at the different hues of paint; he’s looking at me.
“I’ll get these,” I say softly, pocketing my camera to stay in the present.
I hesitate, shifting the box in my hands before finding the courage to look at him again.
“But only if you paint with me.”
His eyes warm just a little, a subtle shift that might go unnoticed by anyone else.
He nods in agreement.
That simple agreement settles somewhere deep in my chest, as though a knot loosens without me noticing.
He takes the paint set from me with a slight nod and heads toward the front counter, his stride steady, the box held carefully in his hand.
I follow slowly as my fingers brush along the edge of a display of stretched canvases.
The clerk at the register greets us with a bright, friendly smile.
Reed places everything I picked up on the counter, including two canvases, the acrylic set I chose, and a pair of brushes with smooth, tapered handles designed for precision.
I reach for my wallet, and his hand gently rests on mine. He shakes his head once, firm but not unkind.
“I’ve got it.”
“Reed, I can at least split?—”
“No.” His voice is low, not sharp, but it carries finality. He tilts his head down slightly, meeting my eyes with a look that asks for my trust, not my argument. “Let me do this.”
The clerk busies herself adjusting something in the computer system, giving us a moment of privacy.
I swallow and lower my hand, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and discomfort wash over me.
Brian buys things to hold over me later, while Reed offers freely and asks for nothing in return. The difference sits uncomfortably in my chest.
The clerk finishes bagging the canvases and carefully slides them into a paper sack with their company logo stamped in green ink.
Reed thanks her, and we both wave goodbye.
We exit through the glass doors, stepping back into the lively energy of Opal Springs.
He walks slightly ahead, bags shifting at his side as he leads us to his truck, parked beneath a tree whose leaves have begun to turn a rust-red gold.
He doesn’t rush me when I pause to look around, pulling out my camera again to film more of the scenery.
Once satisfied, we make it to his truck, and he opens the door for me, taking my purse and gesturing for me to get inside.
I finally settle into the passenger seat, and he waits until I’m comfortably in before closing my door completely.
He rounds the hood and slides in beside me, comfortably putting my purse and the paint supplies in the back seat.
The flannel across his shoulders shifts with his movement. He’s rolled up his sleeves, revealing more of the scarred skin on his forearms.
My gaze lingers a bit longer than it should.
He presses the button, and his truck rumbles to life beneath us. As we pull away from the curb, the town’s bright noise begins to fade again.
We turn onto a road lined with tall pines and glimpses of water through the trees. A lake unfolds into full view, reflecting the sky in broad strokes of blue and silver.
