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I stop in the middle of an aisle full of watercolors. “Jessie doesn’t paint anymore.”
Timothy crosses his arms. “So?”
“Would she start again?”
“If you bought her paints?” He shrugs. “She can buy herself paints and hasn’t, so I’m going to guess no. Come on, there’s a jewelry shop down the road.”
I’m not buying her jewelry. It’s impersonal. And she doesn’t wear any. The first Christmas after we met, I got her a necklace because I thought that was what girls liked—a rookie teenage mistake. Jessie was unimpressed and probably dropped it in the trash. “She might have overheard Addison’s critique of one of her paintings.”
Timothy straightens. “Addison shat all over one of my sister’s paintings?”
“I’ll give Jessie the paints with an apology. Would that work?”
“Dude,” he says with a long sigh, “you can’t apologize to the world because Addison is a dick.”
I shrug.
His eyes narrow. “Is there more to this story?”
Another shrug.
Timothy thinks about it for a moment and grabs a basket from the end of the aisle. “Okay, yes, this is going to be great. Apologize before Jessie opens the gift so she doesn’t smash a canvas over your head.”
That’s a good idea.
I can’t remember what brands Jessie liked. She seemed to have a few of everything, so that’s what I get her. Timothy grabs some canvases.
There’s a Watercolors for Beginners pack and I toss that in too.
“Be nice.” Timothy scolds, pulling it out.
“That’s for me.” I snatch it from him and drop it back in my basket. “I’m doing the Hollywood Art Show and Auction.”
“You are?” He blinks twice, then laughs. “Oh, that’s too good. Jessie can give you a lesson.”
I shake my head. She wouldn’t, but also, I need to avoid any situation where Jessie and I could be left alone together if I don’t want to end up back between her legs.
Half an hour later, as the clerk, who’s at least eighty, rings up everything at glacial speed, Timothy elbows me. “I know, by the way.”
“Know what?” When he doesn’t answer, I look his way. His grin is trouble. “Know what?” I demand again, the blood in my veins turning to ice.
“That you’re aclosetedart collector.”
Fuck.
I’ve never told anyone. Never showed it to anyone.
“Did she give it to you?” He appears genuinely curious.
“Why were you snooping in my closets?” I shoot back.
Timothy laughs. “So that’s a no.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “She threw it in the trash, okay?”
He stares at me in wonder. “You took it out of the trash. After you yelled at her.”
I clench my jaw and look away. It was a private moment. No one was supposed to be there. It was two weeks after the car crash that took my parents. I was in their empty house trying to come to terms with the reality that they were never coming home and I’d never get a chance to make things right with them.
