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Chapter Eight
Kathryn
The house is quiet as I make my way down the hallway toward the closed room at the back. My mind has been a jumbled mess of questions with no answers ever since Jensen and Max left. After we dug in the dirt and found the quarters I dropped, things between us got a little awkward. It’s like the easygoing friendship we so effortlessly slipped into suddenly changed when we realized we weren’t friends.
Not anymore.
That’s when I felt the change, especially from Jensen, and when I felt his discomfort, that’s when the shift happened within me. For the first time since I saw him standing in my backyard, anxiety nipped at my chest, threatening to overcome me. I was able to hold off the attack, mostly by focusing on Max (or Just Max as I will now call him). It wasn’t necessarily because of his presence, but mostly because of the feelings he conjured up inside me, and if the way he reacted were any indication, I’d say the same happened to him.
Maybe without the accelerated heartbeat and the slightly labored breathing.
Max was ready to go play baseball by then, and even though he adamantly insisted I come along, he finally relented with a promise from me to join them soon. With Max secured in his child seat, Jensen threw me a wave, a quick “see you tomorrow,” and took off to the park to play with his son.
And I was left alone in my giant house with walls that haunt me.
But I’m determined to make this house my own. Much of the furniture is being donated, and next weekend I’ll be traveling around to buy a few new pieces of my own. Thanks to the sizable inheritance from my dad, as well as my half of everything in the pending divorce, I have plenty of money to put into this house and whatever else I want. Even though this place holds a few of my worst memories, it also holds many of my best, and those far outweigh the negative.
Home.
That’s what this place is.
My home.
And I’m determined to make it just that.
That means biting the bullet and opening the final door. The one I haven’t had the guts to access yet. I know what stands on the other side of this solid oak door, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face it. But it has been two weeks since I’ve been back home and if I don’t do it now, then when?
No, it needs to happen now.
With a shaky hand on the doorknob, I give it a slight twist, only to find it locked. I pull out the master set of keys and try several before the lock releases. The door creaks loudly as it swings, a mocking groan of admittance. It’s dark inside the room as a dank, dusty scent assaults me. I stand in the open doorway, not really seeing anything, yet seeing everything. My past is here. My passion. My love.
I reach for the switch and give it a flip. The room is bathed in light and a cry slips from my lips. The room is a mess; nothing like I remember in my dreams. The books are still on the walls, shelves and shelves of hardbacks and paperbacks. Classics, mysteries, and some romance. Books I used to read cover to cover late at night or under the shelter of shade beside the pool. Books I used to get lost in when my parents went to their many charity functions or some tropical getaway.
Appearances.
It was all about appearance to them, but to me, it was torture. I’d much rather have stayed home, devouring my books and spending time at the easel, and when I was finally old enough to do so, they stopped using me like a flashy new toy to show off to their rich friends.
I also spent time with Jensen. Throughout high school, he became my solace, my one true friend. He knew me better than my parents, better than anyone in the world, and my parents hated that. Especially my mother. He was too…blue collar. A working boy from a working family. While my father busted his ass in the business world, providing for his wife and young daughter, that was different because their circles were different. Not bad (at least to me). Just different.
That’s one of the things I loved most about him.
He didn’t care about the money that backed my family name. He didn’t care how many square feet the house was or how much money was donated to local charities each year. He didn’t use me to swim in the pool on a hot summer’s day or pretend to be my best friend just to get invited over for a sleepover. He wasn’t like the girls I went to school with. No, they weren’t all like that, but when so many of them proved to have ulterior motives, I stopped looking for the real ones.
Until Jensen.
My legs are shaky as I step inside the room. The old desk is there, littered with papers of no importance left behind. An old photograph of me in a tutu adorns the left corner beside an old phone. It’s covered in grimy dirt and cobwebs, but I can still see the faded pink of the outfit I wore when I was five. My father’s desk sits regal and proud, just like the man I remember. Flashbacks of phone calls and contract reviews fire through my brain and it’s almost as if he’s sitting there now, surrounded by his work.
And in the corner, a young girl paints.
I don’t know when the tears start to fall, but they do nevertheless. Big, fat crocodile tears slide down my cheeks, unchecked. My legs carry me toward the place I found so much comfort and joy. The canvas still sits there, covered in more than a decade’s worth of abandonment, the colorful work half-finished.
I cover my mouth as a sob escapes my lips. I had forgotten about this painting, but now that I see it, the memories return. My father was on the phone, arguing with whoever he was talking to, while I sat on my stool, tuning him out completely. My eyes bounce between the canvas and the ocean outside. This room, though technically his, had the best lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows with so much natural light that it was an artist’s wet dream.
When I was nine and discovered my love for painting, I took over this space. Of course, Daddy gave it up easily when he saw the beauty my young, untrained hands could bring to life. My mother, on the other hand, hated my painting. She never understood how I could spend so much time “doodling” instead of using our name for philanthropy all over the state of North Carolina. Not to mention the fact I usually found myself covered in flecks of blues and greens, reds and yellows.
It was my source of escape, of pure joy, until it was ripped away from me.
Like Jensen.
