Every Day (Brush of Love 2)

“I threw myself into helping him out,” I said. “I gave him a space to concentrate more on his art and taught him how to paint, how to use colored pencils and watercolors and full brushstrokes to fill in his pictures.”

“You taught him how to shade,” he said.

“I did, yes.”

“I could never get the concept across to him when we were younger,” he said, snickering. “It just seemed beyond him almost. He preferred to—”

“Work in gray tones,” I said, grinning.

Our eyes connected for a moment before he sat back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest, almost like he was trying to put a physical barrier between the two of us. It ached me to see him like this, to see him so hurt and so guarded, and all because of the mistakes I made.

I wanted to throw my arms around him again, but I settled for continuing my story.

“Eventually, he got clean,” I said. “Truly clean. He started selling his sketches and paintings for more money and ended up renting a room not too far from my small little excuse for an art studio.”

“If he was clean, if he was living somewhere and doing well, why didn’t he contact his family? Why didn’t he contact me?” he asked.

“I guess because he was ashamed. He talked about you, you know. A lot. How he never wanted to be a disappointment to you and how he didn’t know how to approach you. He talked about how he didn’t want to go back to his family permanently until he was completely back up on his feet. Said something about proving his parents wrong.”

“He talked about me?”

“Mostly he talked about how he felt he let his brother down and how he felt he was a disappointment to you because he knew you thought he could do better. He talked to me on one particular occasion, about three months before he was killed. He visited, and you guys had a fight or something.”

“Did he tell you what the fight was about?” he asked.

“He only said that he still hadn’t proved his worth yet and that his family still felt he was a charity case. He wanted to prove them wrong. He was upset for days, stumbling around and in a haze, eyes constantly red. At first, I thought he’d broken his sobriety, backtracked and all that. Instead, he was just crying himself to sleep every night, so I kept the studio open for him at all hours,” I said.

“Every night?” he asked lightly.

“Every night. I made a studio key for him, so he could come and go as he pleased. He replaced the crying with painting, and that’s when he started doing all those paintings you found in my shed.”

Bryan sat silently for a long time after that. I could tell he was processing everything, and I resisted the urge to reach out and take his hand. I sat there in my chair while I continued to pick at the dried paint on my hands, but I could feel my skin burning. I was millimeters away from picking my own skin off my hands, and suddenly, I felt a warmth descend upon the top of my skin.

I looked down and say Bryan’s large hand encompassing both of mine, and tears rose to my eyes before they started dripping onto his skin. It was the most tender touch I’d felt in weeks, and I could no longer contain the emotion welling in my chest.

“I’m so sorry,” I said breathlessly.

“What happened to John?” he asked.

“Bryan, I’m so sorry I killed him—”

“Hailey,” he said sternly. “Look at me.”

I lifted my gaze to his, my eyes filled with tears as he pulled his hand away. I almost lurched for him. I almost begged him not to go. I almost threw myself into his lap. Anything to not have to tell him this part.

Anything to not rehash what had happened that night.

“What happened?” he asked.

“There was an art student of mine. She was—”

I drew in a shaky breath and tried to calm the trembling of my body. I looked over at my bare walls, feeling my chest swell with pride at the fact that I’d done it. I’d created my own gallery. My own successful gallery that sold my paintings as well as the paintings of others. I closed my eyes and allowed the grief and sadness to overcome me, and when I them, I could feel myself slipping into another world.

A darker world that matched the black of my hair.

I panned my gaze over to Bryan, who I could tell was stunned by the change in my demeanor as a black cloud slowly loomed over us.

“An art student of mine was pedaling drugs in my therapy class,” I said. “At one point in time, I had three separate classes going. Seventeen people looking for help, and she was at all of them. I was so proud of myself for bringing something to the community that could help. But John was the one who found out she was selling drugs to all of them, pulling them back into that world I thought I was saving them from.”