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“What is all of this?” I asked.
Fiona shrugged her shoulders.
She wore denim overalls with the left strap undone.
A white t-shirt underneath.
Little specks of paint on the shirt and the overalls.
And even on her face.
Her hair pulled up into a thrown together bun on the top of her head.
She looked like a hot mess.
A really hot, sexy mess at that too.
Barefoot.
Which for some reason caught my attention the most.
“You’re never going to believe my day,” she said.
I looked at the canvas.
She was painting the ocean. And a sunset.
Using wide brushstrokes to give a slight abstract effect.
I swallowed hard.
I thought about all the times she used to paint.
That was her thing.
I remembered back when Remi would give her hell about it. Telling her she needed to pick a real career to go for. And she’d tell Remi he wanted to be a hockey player. So back off.
She always had talent.
Fiona could do anything.
There was even one time she joked that she was going to live on the beach and draw caricatures for a living. She even did a caricature of Remi and I one time. The two of us in our hockey gear with gigantic heads.
I admired her paintings.
Even when I was a dumb teenager.
But then…
“I hope you’re not too mad at me,” she said. “For this. I just…”
“How?” I asked.
“It’s a wild story, Riff. I met a woman with Parkinson’s who has an art gallery. I told her a little about myself and next thing I knew she was demanding I take this from her. She wanted me to start painting again. It was just… have you ever met someone where you just feel a connection? Wow, that sounds weird.”
“Fi,” I said. “Shhh…”
“What? Did you just tell me to be quiet?”
