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I fucked up once before with her, I admit that. Well, more than once. I paid the price for that. Being without her has been misery. Losing her from my life entirely sent me on a tailspin I have never been able to correct. With her back in town maybe I can finally fly right again.
Once I talk to her tonight, the first thing she is going to do is delete her bio from this dating app. It’s too cute and too many guys will try to get to her. Can’t have more hurdles in my way.
Me: Whatever you say to me stays with me. What kind of art do you do, I am a bit of an art lover.
That’s not entirely true. I got into art just to have something to talk to Paisley about. But my Pais does wild, messy, stunning art that should be hanging in the best galleries in the country. When we were in college, she held shows at small galleries near campus and sold every piece she made. Something is not right if her talent is being looked over.
I would build her a gallery with my bare hands if I thought she would let me.
Her: I did say mess, right? Poetic pieces with words and flowers and bright acrylics. I paint what is in my heart so lately...I don’t know. A little empty, I guess.
Me: Show me some. We can’t show ourselves but show me a painting.
I am shaking as I send the message asking for proof I already feel in my gut. This is Paisley. I will know the second I see whatever art piece she sends me. I may not be an art critic, but I would know her work anywhere. I still have some pieces hanging in my office, ones she made me in college. I can’t breathe right as the dots dance and go away, dance and go away.
When the photo fills my screen, I close my eyes and curse. Fuck me. It’s her. Bright pinks and blues swirl across a canvas over thick black words, lyrics from one of her favorite songs. A song I can recite word for word. No way could I forget that is her song— I made love to her with that song playing.
It’s no coincidence or happenstance.
What are the odds we found each other on this app, a brand-new program, right now? When she is home and hurting and needs someone. I won’t let some other asshole on here be the someone she washes her misery away with. I message her back as I drive out to Connor’s place, my heart thundering in my chest.
Me: Hell, that’s beautiful. Tell me what it means?
Her: It means...me, I guess? It’s my heart on a canvas.
Fuck, I love her. I miss her and how she speaks and feels and how she would show me her work before she showed anyone else. It mattered to her what I thought. And I was always blown away. You look at her work and you feel what she wants you to feel. Hope and fear and love, all pouring out on the canvas she hangs up for the world to see.
Me: Forgive me, I had it wrong. That, that is beautiful. Sharing yourself that way. It must be scary. Must be hard to put what you feel out there, and hope people don’t reject it.
That one is too close to home, but I can’t help myself. I pull up in front of Connor’s place right after I send it. My blood pounds in my ears as I wait for her to respond. Or block me. It feels like we are back in college, talking all night when I had practice the next morning or cuddled up in her tiny dorm bed, talking and laughing for hours.
When I go inside tonight, she will be there. I will face her again after years of not talking to her, not seeing her face, not hearing her voice. Me being here will piss her off. Might send her running off the way she does when things get too tough for her. Right now, I am talking to her for the first time in years and I am not ready to stop yet.
Sitting in my running truck, I message her for twenty more minutes. We talk about music—but I know her favorites of course. About movies and comics and all the things I know my girl likes. With every message, I am more certain it is her I am talking to. When I glance at the pizza, I decide to seal the deal.
Me: Favorite pizza? Watching the dots dance, I hold my breath.
Her: Sausage. With tons of mushrooms. We have this place called Slice where I grew up and they have the best crust, and their cheese is to die for.
Bingo. That’s my girl. Eyes dropping to the pizzas, I smirk. I still know her. As if I could ever forget her. Grabbing the pizzas and closing the app I no longer need, I head inside. Without knocking, because I never do, I head inside, calling out for Connor’s kids. I am just inside the threshold of the huge foyer when their voices call back.
“Bran! Pizza!” they seem as excited about the pizza as seeing me, but I will take it.
Milo holds his little arms up, as if he wants to take the boxes, but I just laugh and scoop him up. Millie is just learning to walk so she stumbles and falls on her butt, so I bend and scoop her up too, balancing the pizza on one hand. Millie slobbers kisses all over my face and I laugh harder, struggling with the pizza and the two cute urchins attached to me.
Something sizzles in my chest just like earlier and I stop. I glance up with a frown, trying to figure why I keep getting this charged feeling. My breath chokes in my lungs when I see exactly why I feel this way. I should have known. That woman always has an effect on me. Seeing her all these years later is like a potent punch to my gut.
Standing up at the top of the wide staircase, Paisley watches us. In a lacy sheer top with a neon pink bustier beneath it and tight leather shorts, she looks as stunning as I remember. Sophisticated and classy. Her thick dark hair spills down her shoulders in waves but it’s pulled back from her face in a complex braid. Her fingertips are stained with paint and her thighs have writing on them. My girl always used whatever she could for a canvas.
My eyes flash to the tattoo on her hand and my gut twists. It’s my college football number in thick black swooping writing. My chest aches as I remember the night she got it. How hot it always made me when she wrapped that hand around me and told me she belonged to me like I belonged to her. That number meant more to us than just a jersey number. It was our number and seeing it still bright and bold on her hand makes emotion burn in my throat as I set the kids down.
“Hey....hey Paisley,” I call to her, my voice breaking.
“Hi, Bran,” she whispers as she takes the steps slowly, her voice no steadier than mine.
I watch her thighs in those shorts and think about the last time I was buried between them. About how sweet she tasted on my tongue and how loud she got when I made her come. My eyes finally meet hers and the blue depths of hers are hot. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s remembering just like I am, or she’s pissed to see me.
“Brought pizza from Slice,” I choke out, waving the stack of boxes in my hand, “I... I heard you were back, and I thought I should come see you,” I stammer my words as she approaches, and those eyes stay locked on me.
