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“I owe you next time. You’re such a good guy. Thanks!” I say, almost floating as I drag myself away from the bar.
Outside, I suck in the night air, loving how the stars twinkle overhead. There’s so many more than I’d ever see in Seattle, and familiar constellations are colorful and sharper. All the classic legends in the sky aren’t just ideas here, but living stories.
I’m fifteen seconds into enjoying the quiet night when I see him.
Cromwell. His arms are on the tall patio railing like he’s been out for a while, waiting.
Waiting for me?
I start to move, praying he won’t notice me, but his voice stabs my back like a dagger.
“Miss Landers, wait. Tell me what you’re so pissed about.”
My feet are lead as I turn.
“Nothing.”
“Then why lie to me?”
“Uh—about what? Are you—”
“Your ankle.” His eyes snap down my leg.
Oh.
Oh, jeez.
He’s like a flipping dog with a bone. Too observant, too resilient, never letting go.
“You really want to know? Fine.” I roll my eyes. “It was more polite than saying I’m allergic to egofreaks. A big bad CEO really should know how to handle rejection better, but that’s not my problem.”
His jaw sets like he’s chewing glass.
“If you want to let me go for talking back, I get it,” I say. “I can see nobody ever told you that before.”
“What game do you think I was playing?” Every word is a bullet from his mouth.
My God.
Is he really that oblivious or is he just playing dumb?
But his voice is so sincere a more gullible person would think he really didn’t know.
“The inn, dude. What else? What do you even really want with it?”
“I told you. Peace and quiet. The best chance to preserve its beauty. I won’t let it turn into another overactive eyesore,” he says tightly.
“And I told you that you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not selling.”
“I haven’t tried to buy it from you since, have I?”
“No. You just wrote your option into my consulting contract. And I guess you’re so worried about my crush on the handyman you had to go and—” I pause, my voice rusting shut with sadness. “—and make me think you actually wanted to dance with me instead of pump me for information.”
His eyes widen, the stars adding their silver to his bewildered look.
“What the hell? I would never—”
I throw a hand up and turn again.
“You know what, save it. I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day, and whatever did or didn’t happen shouldn’t affect our work. Don’t mention the property again, and I’ll shut my yap and give you a stellar heap of content, okay?”
I never stick around long enough to hear his answer before I bolt into the night.
The back of my hand hides the most ridiculous tears.
6
No Bad Memories (Miles)
The next day, I’m with my father, my hand wrapped gently around his as he holds the brush.
“There, Dad. Keep going. Not so hard to bring the color out, is it?” I do a terrible Bob Ross, but I try, keeping my voice as warm and encouraging as I can.
“Show me,” he answers feebly.
If I take my hand off his, he’ll be trembling too hard to form anything resembling a straight line.
It’s fucking hard to be here, but harder not to be.
Ignoring my urge to slash angry strokes across the canvas, I grip the end of his brush and lead him, gently but firmly.
A minute later, I think I see a ghost of a smile pulling at his thin lips.
He still enjoys this by muscle memory, I think, even if he doesn’t remember how to paint without help.
Even if he can’t remember his own son, and I have to explain who the hell I am every time.
The image comes out entirely formless, but it doesn’t matter.
“A tree?” he whispers, looking up at me with pale-blue eyes.
“If you’d like a forest scene,” I say, offering a real smile.
“India,” he says suddenly. “I was there once.”
My parents actually visited the entire subcontinent dozens of times, but I don’t correct him.
I’m searching for my own muse, buried somewhere in the buffalo-brained fog of a night at Murphy’s where I made a beautiful, obstinate young woman run off in tears.
An entirely reckless, preventable episode.
The only reason I care, I tell myself.
Except a man can only lie to himself so much before it gnaws at his bones.
Fuck, this is miserable.
On the surface, there’s nothing special about that redheaded spitfire, and I’d better remember it. Auburn sirens with looks and brains damn near grow on trees.
But not all women with hair borrowed from the sun and emeralds for eyes are so good at turning me into an absolute gibbering imbecile.
And that’s what I am now as I try to form a scene with my father, slowly bringing out a lush jungle landscape in six shades of green.
