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“Someone has to do it.”
We reach my front porch and stall at the bottom of the steps.
Caleb gestures to himself. “You really think you can handle all this, Bec.”
I suck in a breath. “Somehow I think I’ll manage.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” he says.
“I expect nothing less.”
His dimples pop as he looks at me, and my heart speeds up. He rocks on his heels and sighs. “It’s getting late, so you should probably head in.”
I frown.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“At this point, I think that’s a given.”
He dips down to kiss my forehead. “Goodnight, Becca.”
“Goodnight,” I say. Then, I trudge up the stairs. Pausing at the last step, I turn back. “Your jacket.”
“Keep it. It looks better on you.”
I chuckle. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.”
“Whatever you say, Bec,” he says with a wink.
I bite my lip and walk to the door before I can talk myself out of leaving.
Most of the lights are off in the house but light from the living room seeps into the entryway. Mom sits on the couch, and the glow from the TV bounces off her face. Her eyes are a little swollen and she has a crumpled tissue in her hand.
When she sees me she smiles, but I can still see her sadness showing through—her loneliness.
“How was the dance?” she asks.
“It was good,” I say, stepping closer.
Her eyes fixate on the jacket wrapped around my arms. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
I nod. “We talked everything out.”
“I’m happy for you,” she says. “I’ve always liked Caleb.”
Guilt pulls at me. I’m happy right now, but she’s miserable. I feel the need to talk to her. To fill the gaps in her loneliness.
“You’re probably tired,” she says. “Why don’t you head to bed?” She’s giving me an out—permission to leave because she knows I hate small talk.
I wander closer, sitting down next to her on the couch. “That’s okay. Do you want to hear more about the dance?”
Her eyes sparkle. “I’d love that.”
* * *
Over the next week,I start to paint more like I used to. I don’t have to think about what I’ll paint. Every stroke comes naturally. I create sunsets, oceans, gardens.
But I also start to paint my family again—the memories of our happy times. The smiles. The laughter. The joy. I paint us the way I want to remember us years from now.
