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It doesn’t take long before we’re pulling into her driveway. The lights in her father’s house are on, and I feel like we’re sneaking around like we used to when she didn’t want her dad to know I was sleeping over. Though, we should be careful because Jerry’s already suspicious as hell. Until he knows the truth, it’d be best if we’re not seen together outside of work.
When we walk inside her house, she sets her purse on the counter and sighs. “Today has been weird as hell. I need astrongdrink of something.”
“It definitely has.”
When I look around the cottage, I glance at all of her mother’s paintings on the walls. There’s a large canvas of an open field surrounded by a forest with an absolutely stunning use of colors. “She was so talented,” I say as Gemma stands next to me.
“Sometimes when I look at this painting, I imagine myself going through the plush grass and running straight into the forest.” Her voice trails off, and I try to picture what would be beyond the landscape.
I search around the room for a specific painting, but I don’t find it. “Where’s that morning glories watercolor painting?”
Moving into the kitchen, I notice an abstract canvas with bright colors splashed across it—another beautiful one her mother created.
She tilts her head with amusement in her eyes. “You remember that too?”
“Of course. I thought it was in the dining room. Where’d it go?”
A blush hits her cheeks. “I put it in my bedroom. Wanna see it?”
“Sure.” I force down the lump in my throat as she moves toward the hallway, and I follow her. There were many summer days and nights spent tangled together in the sheets of that room.
Leaning against the doorframe, I notice not much has changed in here. She still has the same headboard and dresser with framed photos of her, Everleigh, and Katie. I wait until she waves me forward. A pair of panties and bra are crumpled on the floor, and she kicks them to the side. “Sorry. I forgot about those.”
“Not like I haven’t seen them before,” I say with a chuckle, moving closer to the painting. The morning glories are so detailed they almost look real. Bright purple and pink stand out among the green grass. “Wow,” I mutter. “Just as beautiful as I remember.”
“I wish I could paint like her—or rather, I wish my mother was here to teach me,” she confesses.
“You can still learn,” I encourage. “It’s not too late.”
She cocks a brow. “I’ve triedmanytimes, and they look like something a four-year-old made. It’s embarrassing, considering I should have her creative genes, but I obviously don’t. Just imagine if Bob Ross’s son was a terrible painter!”
I laugh. “Is he?”
“No! He’s brilliant, just like his dad was. The mountainscapes he creates…it’s ridiculous. Then you have me, who can barely paint a sun—the simplest thing ever, and I still managed to screw it up.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“Ha! I’ll show you,” she says and opens her closet. That’s when I notice the orange dress hanging on the rod, bringing back memories of her letter. She still has it, after all. Up on top is an old Converse box, and I’m curious what’s inside. Gemma pulls a canvas from the back and hands it to me, stealing my focus.
It takes everything I have not to lose my shit at the blob of paint. I tuck my lips into my mouth, but it’s impossible to hold back a smile.
“See!” she exclaims and points at me.
“What is it?” I ask, tilting it.
“It’s supposed to be a nest on a tree branch. Inside are baby birds and different colored eggs.”
“Ooh, sure, I see that.” I nod, but she sees through my lie and playfully smacks me.
“Hey! Picasso’s art was strange and is still extremely popular.” I throw her a wink.
She rolls her eyes, and I hand her the painting, which she shoves to the back of her closet.
“What’s in that box?” I ask, curious.
“Um. All your letters.”
“Really? You saved them even after all these years?”
