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There’sno response, soIknock harder.Eventually, it opens, andBeau’sface, so likeDevon’s, stares back at me with an equally unreadable expression.Howis it that guys can turn off their emotions so thoroughly?ParticularlywhenI’mstanding in front of them with all my emotions completely exposed.
“Beau,”Istart, desperate for answers.
Buthe shakes his head. “Ican’t talk about it right now,” he says.
“YouandDevonboth,”Isnap. “ButIneed to talk about it.”
Hislips twist. “Nowyou want to talk?NowthatI’vediscovered your secret, you feel like talking?Butyou were okay keeping your mouth shut when you andDevonwere hiding whatever this is from me.”
“Thatwasn’t my idea.I—”
“Youwent along with it, though, didn’t you?”Hisvoice is curt.Beau’snever spoken to me like this before.I’mfloundering, drowning, with dark water rising higher around me.
Ishake my head. “Beau, about whatDevonsaid before.Abouthow you—”
Hisexpression shutters completely, and he cuts me off again. “I’mtired andIdon’t want to talk about it.I’llsee you tomorrow,Shae.”Thenhe steps back and closes the door in my face.
I’mleft there, in my bikini, water dripping from my hair and pooling on the floor, bewildered.Howdid everything go from so good to so bad in the blink of an eye?
Andthe things thatBeauandDevonsaid.Mybrain can’t catch up.Myheartcan’t catch up.
Itrudge to my bedroom and go straight into the bathroom.Iturn the shower on to hot and hold my hand under the spray until it’s the right temperature.AndthenIclimb in, still wearing my swimsuit.OnlyafterI’vestood there for a few minutes, letting the deluge wash over me, doIfumble with the ties and let the scraps of material fall onto the tiled floor.
Mymind turns toDevon.Whereis he?Whywon’t he talk to me?Whywon’t anyone talk to me?
WhenIcan’t handle my own thoughts anymore,Iturn the shower off and get out.OnceI’mtoweled off and in my pajamas,Irealize there’s no wayI’llbe able to get to sleep.Instead,Icreep out of my bedroom, pausing briefly atBeau’sdoor, wondering if he’s awake as well.Wonderingif he’ll talk to me now ifIknock and go in.
Idon’t, though.Instead,Ikeep going to my art room.Idon’t turn on any of the lamps.Iwant darkness right now.Althoughwith theLAcityscape lit up in front of me, there’s still enough light to see whatIneed to.
Ipull out the portrait ofDevonI’vebeen working on here and there and put it on the easel.Inthe dim light,Istare at the blue of his eyes, the shape of his jaw, the teasing smile.ThenIpick up my paintbrush and apply color to the canvas.
Everyemotion raging inside me, every memory, bleeds out through my brush.Fromthe momentDevonwalked intoBeau’sliving room when we were fifteen to the moment he let the elevator door close in my face.Theportrait changes, darkens in some areas, lightens in others.Idon’t stop to think, to assess.Noone’s ever going to see this painting.NotevenDevon.SoIlet it all go.
It’sonly when a sunbeam hits my face and makes me blink thatIrealize it’s dawn.I’vespent hours painting.Myhand shakes and my eyes are blurry.
Ican’t bring myself to stand back and look at whatI’vedone.Thisclose,Ican’t get a sense of how it looks.Andhonestly,Idon’t want to.Thiswas about emotion, not aesthetic.Andit’s worked becauseI’mfinally numb enough to sleep.Andsuddenly, my bed is allIcan think about.
Iturn the painting to face the wall and leave the room, being careful to close the door quietly behind me.NotthatIthinkBeauwill nose around.Butmy heart and soul are imprinted on that canvas, andI’mnot ready to share that with anyone.IdoubtIever will be.
Istumble down the hallway and into my room.I’vebarely collapsed onto my bed before my lids droop shut.Myfinal thought before sleep rolls over me like a dark wave?WheredidDevonspend the night?
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Devon
Ahard jolt wakes me,andIblink into the dimness.I’mdefinitely not in my own bed, but my head is pounding and my brain is sluggish.Wherethe fuck didIend up?
“Whatthe hell are you doing here?” a rough voice asks, andIturn to findMick’spale blue eyes locked on me.
Hemust have kicked the bed.Thefold-up bed in the back of his store.Mymemory returns.Afterdriving around for what seemed hours like last night,Iended up here.Ilet myself in, dragged out the sofa bed, then got a bottle ofJackfrom the cupboard and had a little pity party for one untilIpassed out.
Mickbends down and picks up the empty bottle, holding it out to me and raising his brows. “Thatwas three quarters full.”
“I’llreplace it.”Myvoice is hoarse, andIcough to clear my throat.
“That’snot whatI’mworried about,” he says. “Butyeah, you will.”
Ishove myself upright, wincing at the pain in my head.
