Page 62
Oookay, then. In the most predictable, unsurprising turn of events, I’ve developed a massive crush on my paper-only husband. But can you blame a girl? At this point, I’m beginning to seriously question the sanity of Shane’s ex. Is this Mike Ellison guy also Superman or something? Otherwise, I don’t understand why you’d walk away from all of this.
I adjust the bronze goose in my lap. The rest of our haul is in the back of his cab, minus the credenza. Before we left, Shane scheduled a date with Mr. Fields’s delivery service. Then he offered to move a few heavy pieces closer toward the walls so that Mr. Fields could better navigate the space with his cane. If I hadn’t already been crushing on my fake husband, seeing his muscles strain as he moved furniture for an elderly man did me in.
“Just so you know,” I say, shifting the goose so his wing isn’t jabbing my thigh. “The last three times I went to that store, I didn’t knock over a single thing.”
Shane eyes me but doesn’t say anything.
“I didn’t!”
When the corner of his mouth kicks up, I want to sigh like a schoolgirl.
“I’m serious,” I tell him, rotating to place the goose in the backseat before turning sideways.
His smile dives into a frown. “Sit back. Your seatbelt doesn’t work as well when you’re like that.”
“But I want to see your face.” I poke him in the cheek.
“Willow.” The growly way he says my name sends goosebumps sprinting down my arms.
I harrumph, sitting straight and crossing my arms. The pleased grin on Shane’s lips is absolutely worth not being able to study him fully.
“Also, I’m not always a trainwreck.”
Shane nods like he believes me, but I feel the need to elaborate.
“For example, I have never—not once—knocked over a bottle of linseed oil or accidentally mixed up my brushes. When I’m painting…”
My sentence trails off as I think of how to describe the sensation.
“Do you know that feeling when it seems like every cell in your body is aligned? Like your skeletal structure, your muscles, even your vision are fine-tuned just so you can accomplish this one thing?”
When Shane doesn’t fill the pause I leave open, I continue.
“It’s like that every time. Sure, different parts are hard. You have to make hundreds of tiny decisions that no one else will notice individually but everyone will notice collectively. You have to commit months—even a year—to a single image, which can easily lead to burnout. You find yourself adjusting, perfecting, softening, to the point where it’s almost obsessive, but”—I release a contented breath—“there’s nothing else I’d rather do.”
Shane’s fingers tap against the steering wheel.
“That’s how I feel about baseball.”
“Really?”
Shane scowls when I rotate in my seat again.
“Ugh, fine.” I make a show of pushing my shoulders as far back as they’ll go before lolling my head to the side to glare at him.
He nods, satisfied, before tapping the wheel again.
“Hockey was always…”
The silence stretches so long a whole song finishes on the radio.
“Challenging.”
When a DJ talks excitedly over an obnoxious airhorn, Shane punches the controls, plunging us into quiet. Only the hush of tires on damp pavement lingers as we drive home.
“I thought that was how it was supposed to be. I mean, no kid wants to get up at four in the morning for drills before school, to spend every waking hour training or studying plays. Except, my brothers did. They loved it. Couldn’t get enough.”
He falls silent again, his jaw working.
