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“Do you? Really? Or do you just care about Mum?”
That’s a hard question to answer. In my mind, the two are so deeply entwined it’s difficult for me to separate them.
“It’s the same thing.” The reply comes automatically, but it feels hollow. Like there’s no backing behind the words, no substance. It’s a present gift-wrapped in beautiful paper with nothing inside. And the response is a reflex, muscle memory. I made a promise as I stood over my mother’s grave, watching the roses hit her casket, that I would keep her dream alive.
And that is more important than any selfish need I have.
These past few weeks, I’ve been itching to get my brushes out again. Itching to paint a woman with flowing blue hair. Itching to capture the gleam of tangled sheets and steam curling upward from twin coffee cups.
Paintings that represent another life.
But indulging in such things is only going to make the experience more painful in the long run. I can’t start hoping for a future I know isn’t mine to have.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Emery
IFINISHUPmy workday on cloud nine. Advance copies of the game have gone out to a select list of influencers and I promised myself I wouldn’t read the feedback. I’ve assigned that job to Artie and asked him to give me the short-and-sweet version.
But reviews are rolling in and the results are good. One person said that we’d outdone ourselves, even surpassing the awesomeness of our first release!
We have so much to do to make sure the final version is ready, but I stop the team early so we can have a little celebration. Drinks at the pub across the road from our shared office space and cheers all around. Eric and I have patched up our differences and I’m feeling more hopeful about my future than ever.
I have one man to thank for this—Rowan. He was the one who pushed me to see past the barriers I was putting in my own way. He was the one who showed me I could trust myself. Who could see my prickles and spikes were nothing more than self-defence.
These past few weeks have been...everything.
Each day I spend with him, I feel myself become more fully the person I’ve always wanted to be. Someone confident who sees the potential and goodness in things. Someone who isn’t afraid to put herself out into the world.
I practically skip back to my apartment building after the team disbands at the pub. I’m a little tipsy, a little fuzzy around the edges. But I feel so freaking happy that my feet barely touch the ground...and I want to share it with him. I want to say thank you.
It’s been a long time since my first reaction was to share an experience with someone. I’ve been an island for too long.
By the time I make it to his apartment, I’m a crackling ball of energy. I knock loudly and bounce on the balls of my feet as I wait for him to answer. At first, I wonder if he might not be home, but then I hear a softthumpinside. Still, he doesn’t come to the door. Frowning, I knock again.
A few minutes later, the door swings open. Rowan is dressed in a fitted white T-shirt and shorts and his hair is sticking out in all directions. There’s a distance in his energy and I feel it right away.
Something is wrong.
“Hey,” I say, jamming my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and rocking on my heels. “Is this a good time?”
These past few weeks I haven’t needed to ask those questions. Every time I knock, he practically pulls me inside by my shirt, eager to have his lips and his hands on me. And I do the same to him. But I sense the change in the air like the smell of a storm coming.
And a little fissure forms in my heart.
Rowan rakes a hand through his hair and before he can say anything, I blurt out, “What’s wrong?”
He reaches for my wrist and tugs me forward. “We had a new artist showing last night and...”
“No good?”
“Our worst to date.”
Ouch. I know he takes his business seriously and that must be a blow. The need to comfort him surges through me and I wind my arms around his neck, not caring if one of our neighbours comes outside and sees. I brush my lips over his and feel the rigidity leach out of his muscles as he melts against me.
“Sorry it didn’t go well,” I murmur against his lips.
“Shit happens.”
