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But it’s his eyes that are the most prominent in my mind.
Honey-brown with sparkles of gold, they suit him incredibly well. And I instantly felt comfortable looking into them.
Seeing him, talking to him, it was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
I wanted to crawl inside his brain and try to understand why. Why does the girl in his painting look so much like me?
But I could barely find the words to introduce myself, much less ask him all of the questions racing through my mind, and I don’t think he would have had the answers if I’d managed.
He seemed just as shocked to see me in the flesh as I was to see myself inside his painting.
By the time I left the gallery, I was overwhelmed.
It was too much.
He was too much.
But now that I’ve had some distance, I regret declining his offer to go to lunch with a stupid fucking excuse.
Too much or not, I want more time with him.
“Earth to Indy.” My sister’s voice pulls me from my daydream, and I look up from my plate to meet her eyes. “You okay over there?”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing figurative cobwebs from my throat. “Of course.”
“You sure, sweetie?” my mom asks, and I sigh.
Great. Now they’re all going to get involved.
“I’m just a little tired tonight, that’s all,” I excuse and then toss in a little white lie to sweeten the deal. “I was up late last night working on lesson plans.”
I’ve heard that the best lies are founded in truth, and this one fits the bill. Because I was up late last night. I just wasn’t thinking about anything even remotely related to work.
I was trying not to Google.
The impulse last night to search anything and everything about Ansel Bray was so intense I could hardly stand it, but I just couldn’t let myself fall down that rabbit hole.
What if I found something that terrified me? Drew me to him?
Hell, I’m not entirely sure those questions aren’t the same thing.
I silently groan at the mental battle and pop a piece of garlic bread into my mouth. It’s savory and warm and just the right size to keep word vomit from spilling out.
“Where’s Miller?” Aunt Bethany asks, and my mom tilts her head to the side in confusion.
“Miller?”
“Indigo’s boyfriend,” my aunt clarifies, and my mom rolls her eyes.
“Pretty sure you mean Matt,” Lily corrects with a wry grin.
The mere mention of Matt’s name makes my stomach drop with guilt. I haven’t thought about him at all today. Truthfully, I’ve barely thought about him since he left yesterday morning.
At least you remembered to check-in this morning and make sure he had a safe flight, I try to reassure myself, but it only magnifies my guilt. Oh, yeah, world’s best girlfriend, right here…
“His name is Matt?” Aunt Bethany looks at me, and I nod. “Well, shit, maybe if you brought him around more, I’d remember his name.”
“I do bring him around,” I counter, but my sister flashes me a look that says I’m full of shit. “Well, I try to bring him around, but he travels a lot for work.”
Aunt Bethany purses her lips. “It’d be nice if at least one of you girls managed to find a husband. I’d love a great-niece or nephew, you know, while I’m still alive.”
Lily snorts. “You’re sixty, Aunt Bethie. Pretty sure you’ve got a few more good years in you.”
Our aunt shrugs and takes a hearty drink of her wine. Her third glass of wine, mind you. “I guess we should at least be thankful this one—” she nods toward me “—has a boyfriend. You, on the other hand, I’m starting to wonder if you’re a lost cause.”
Uh oh. The storm is a-brewin’.
Wine, Aunt Bethie, and Lily mix like oil and water.
“A lost cause?” Lily questions, her voice rising in irritation. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? I’m only thirty-one, for fuck’s sake.”
“Lil!” my mother screeches. “Language!”
But they ignore her completely.
My aunt clucks her tongue. “Thirty-one is only four years away from thirty-five, and you know what they say about thirty-five…” My aunt tsks, and Hurricane Lily is now headed for landfall.
“If it’s something about my eggs going bad, then I don’t want to hear it.”
“Well, it’s true,” Aunt Bethany continues. “Fertility plummets by the time you reach your mid-thirties. Hell, by that time, menopause might even be kicking in, and you’re more likely to be killed by a terrorist than to get married. I saw it in Sleepless in Seattle.”
Lily slams her fork onto the table. “Well, God forbid I don’t get married or have kids, you know, like you, Aunt Bethie. And Sleepless in Seattle is a damn movie, not a representation of fact.”
I cringe.
Oh boy…
If there is one thing Aunt Bethany is good for, it’s pissing off my sister with her old-fashioned mind-set on things like marriage and kids. Which is insanely hypocritical considering she’s a sixty-year-old spinster who has never been married and has exactly zero children.
