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“Hey guys, what’s up?” Tim asked with feigned nonchalance, though I could tell he was trying to assert his presence. “Mia, I wanted to see if you prefer red or white wine for the starlight picnic. I’ve chosen some amazing homemade goodies from the deli stall for us, too. I’m sure it will be a night to remember.”
The situation quickly turned awkward, and I felt the pressure of both their gazes on me. My thoughts raced, unsure how to navigate the emotional minefield before me. Inhaling deeply, I concluded that honesty was the optimal approach for both of them.
“Max, I appreciate your honesty, and I don’t want any confusion between us either,” I began, my voice wavering slightly. “And Tim, your invitation sounds like a lot of fun, but I need some time to think about everything.”
Both men nodded their expressions a mixture of understanding and disappointment. I strode away, leaving them standing there. I realized that the weight of my decision loomed heavier than ever. The carefree atmosphere of the market felt like a distant memory, replaced by the reality of the tough choices I had to make.
Chapter 19
Sincethatconversationatthe market, Max and I had been like ships passing in the night. I wondered if he had deliberately been avoiding me or if his working nights and sleeping during the day were just down to the schedule set by the sheriff’s station. But today was different - he’d left a note saying he’d return around 6pm. I knew I couldn’t avoid a proper talk with him any longer.
I thought it best to focus on another whirlwind of creativity with the children. Art supplies were scattered all over Thornton’s living room floor, and Lucy and Logan enthusiastically chattered about their artistic visions for the day’s project.
“Alright, Picasso,” I teased Lucy with a playful grin, “what shade of blue are we going for here?”
“Sky blue!” she declared, her curls bouncing with enthusiasm. Logan nodded in agreement, already focused on molding his clay masterpiece.
As I helped Lucy mix the perfect shade of blue paint, my thoughts drifted to my impending conversation with Max. Each squeeze of the paint tube felt like the pressure building inside me—tightening, relentless, and mounting with each passing moment.
“Hey, Miss Mia, do you think this looks like a seagull?” Lucy asked, holding up her freshly painted canvas.
“Absolutely,” I replied, doing my best to keep my voice steady and my smile genuine. “Keep up the good work, kiddo.”
“Thanks, Miss Mia!” Lucy beamed with pride before returning to her painting.
I glanced over at Logan, who was studiously molding his clay. Noticing my distant look, he suddenly held up a comically misshapen clay sculpture before me.
“Miss Mia, what do you think?” He tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t help the corners of his mouth turning up into a grin.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Logan, that’s an... interesting shape you’ve got there. Is it... a snake with really big eyes?”
“Yessss! You got it in one!” Logan replied, pleased with my reaction. His simple joy momentarily lifted the weight of my anxieties.
Throughout the day, every brushstroke I painted and every piece of craft I helped with became an outlet for my emotions, translating my inner turmoil onto paper and clay. With each dab of paint, marker stroke, or clay press, I channeled my feelings into our colorful creations.
“Look, Miss Mia! I made a rainbow!” Lucy proudly showed off her new artwork, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Wow, Lucy, it’s beautiful!” I praised her, genuinely impressed by her creativity.
“Your turn, Miss Mia,” Logan chimed in, handing me a fresh canvas. “Show us what you can do!”
I hesitated momentarily, then picked up a paintbrush and let my emotions guide me. As the day wore on, I forgot my worries, losing myself in the whirlwind of art and laughter with the children.
The smell of turkey and cheese sandwiches filled the air as I prepared lunch for Lucy, Logan, and myself. My thoughts couldn’t help but drift back to the conversation I needed to have with Max.
“Miss Mia?” Lucy’s voice pulled me from my reverie as she nibbled on her sandwich. “How do grown-ups know when they like someone?”
I smiled wryly at her question, one that mirrored my internal struggle. “Well, Lucy,” I began lightheartedly, “sometimes it’s like a little butterfly flapping its wings in your stomach or your heart skipping a beat when you see them.”
“Like in the movies?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Kind of,” I answered, trying not to let the uncertainty I felt seep into my voice.
As the afternoon sun descended, we showcased our art in an impromptu “art gallery” in the living room. Lucy and Logan arranged their colorful masterpieces with pride, their faces beaming with innocent joy.
“Miss Mia, which one is your favorite?” Lucy queried, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the scene.
“It’s so hard to choose,” I replied honestly, my gaze sweeping over the array of paintings and sculptures. But as I looked at my work, I knew there was more to it than just paint and clay. Each stroke and press held a complexity of emotions that the children couldn’t quite understand yet.
