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Tyler had issues, and I used to worry that he’d inherited the asshole gene from our dad. But I’m trying hard to believe he never hurt Sam. Never wanted to see her hurting the way she is now.
I shake my head. No, I can’t go there. One, he’s not here. Two, he was not our dad. And three, he’d never hurt Sam.
If I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it.
I push all my doubts into the pit of my stomach, letting it fester there along with the hard ball of guilt I’ve been building up for years. I won’t think ill of my brother’s memory. He had one slipup with the redhead, but that doesn’t mean anything. Just that he was a young, confused guy.
As she stands and looks around, I press farther behind my creeper corner. She starts walking, and I follow. I know exactly what she sees when she halts. I spotted it while I was watching her on the phone, and knew she’d head there at some point.
Sam walks into Hawthorn Galleries. The artist in her couldn’t pass it by. I smile to myself, despite everything. And when I reach the display window highlighting abstract paintings, I know I’m going in there, too.
There’re only a handful of people inside, and I spot Sam easily. She’s standing in front of a life-sized painting of a Victorian man. The painting is limited in shades of browns and grays. She tilts her head as she studies it, then she wraps her arms around her stomach. Lost in contemplation.
I have the sudden and overwhelming desire to walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her. Pull her close, feel her breathing against me, as we both admire the piece. In some alternate reality, maybe that could happen.
Not this one.
Instead, with shame marching my feet forward, I close the gap between us, stopping a safe distance away. “The artist picked an awesome palette,” I say, and her frame noticeably tenses. “A little tantamount of Walt Kuhn, but less intense.”
My words hang in the air. I’m sure she won’t respond until, “I think it’s more comparable to Frans Hals, but I can see Khun, too.” She unlaces her arms and sinks her hands into the back pockets of her jean skirt. It’s adorable and sexy and makes me want to hold her even more.
“But,” she continues. “I wouldn’t hang it on my wall.”
I smile. “Huge creepy guy staring at me? I guess I wouldn’t either.”
This could turn ugly. If I say the wrong thing, or even if Sam decides she’s sick of this game and lets her anger rip, then we could end up exploding right in the middle of an art gallery. But right now, I have to take the chance. And it’s safer in public.
As she moves on, looking over the paintings, I follow, keeping a few feet behind. Letting her lead and hav
e her distance. When she stops at a painting near the corner of the room, I move a foot closer to her.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me, but I see the strain in her facial muscles, crimson coloring the tip of her ear. At least I know she’s really considering my question.
“How’s your hand?”
I blink, and look down at my knuckles. Red and swollen. Flexing my hand, I say, “Fine. That was just . . . blowing off steam. I didn’t even hit it hard.” And that’s true. But by the time we make it to our final stop, I might be going home as one big, battered bruise.
She sighs. “All right, good. Then for starters, we get the hell out of this city.” My eyebrows draw together as she turns to face me. “Not that I don’t like it here. I think I could spend a week visiting all the galleries and getting lost in art. And I’d love it. But apparently”—she begins walking toward the front of the shop. I trail her—“there’s this badass chick band playing in Wichita that Biker Melody says we can’t miss.”
So that’s who she was talking to. I’m surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t be. She probably needed another girl to talk to, and after what I outted about her mom, she wasn’t going there. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s spoken to any of her friends.
She opens the glass door and glances back at me. “Are you in?”
She’s holding the door open, hovering between the gallery and outside. Her question is more than just asking if I’m down for seeing a show—more than wondering if I’m onboard for continuing this trip. As she stands there, door wide open and paused between two places . . . We’re at a crossroads.
I can walk through that door with her, accepting whatever crazy she dishes out. Or I can allow that door to close—and let her go.
Before she gives me another moment to consider my decision, she steps outside. The door begins to shut. In slow motion, I watch it closing. Separating her from me.
I push through and step beside her.
“What time’s the show?” I ask.
She turns and looks up, her face guarded. “Early.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Let’s go,” I say, and her expression opens up, turning curious. “I can’t say no to badass chick bands.”
