Every Day (Brush of Love 2)

I got to cooking the two wonderful steaks she’d brought just as she slid the vegetables into the oven to roast. She took the potatoes I’d already peeled and started boiling them, and that’s when she finally found her voice to burst the silence hanging between us.

“How do you feel about running an article on John’s showcase?” she asked.

“Like an actual newspaper article?” I asked.

“Yeah. With, like, his backstory and everything?”

She started draining the potatoes while I pulled the steaks from the pan to rest. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about telling John’s story like that. On one hand, it was a wonderful story that deserved to be told of his background and his heroism and how he lived the last few months of his life. On the other hand, he wasn’t here to tell us whether he’d want something like that.

“Honestly? I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

“Do you know who Jennifer Skyles is?” she asked.

“Yeah. That’s the entertainment reporter from that San Diego newspaper. She writes about the things going on around the community that she feels relates to us. Pop culture and stuff, I think.”

“She also writes about things like the theater, the opera, and art galleries,” she said.

“You thinking about contacting her?” I asked.

Hailey began to mash the potatoes while I pulled the vegetables out of the oven.

“Well, when the gallery first opened, about a month into things, she came snooping around, asking me questions to see if there was a story on my art gallery. She thought it was nice, but she didn’t think it had a hook to grab her audience or whatever.”

“That’s shit. The story behind your gallery is awesome,” I said.

“It is when you tell them the story of us,” she said. “But apparently, not if you remove the dastardly story of love and betrayal.”

I saw a hint of regret rise in her eyes, and I leaned forward to kiss the side of her head. “Allow yourself forgiveness, Hailey.”

“Anyway,” she said, sighing, “I contacted her and gave her a quick rundown of John’s story. The problem is, part of his story has to be cross-checked.”

She looked over at me hesitantly, obviously gauging my reaction. I hated that she still felt she had to do that. I hated that I’d made her feel as if she couldn’t freely talk to me anymore. My gut sank to my toes while I watched the fear still roll behind her eyes like she was scared that at any moment, she’d say the wrong thing, and I’d toss her back out onto my porch.

I kicked myself while I scooped the vegetables onto our plates.

“So, without corroborating how John died, she doesn’t want to write the story,” I said.

“Well, I sort of told her there might be another angle we could take,” she said.

“What angle’s that?”

“The one about how we met.”

I set the plates on the table while she poured the mashed potatoes into a bowl. She grabbed a serving spoon while I fished out two wine glasses, pouring us each a full glass of wine before we both sat down at the table. The apple scent from the candles was beginning to permeate the room, and I saw Hailey instantly relax as the scent reached her.

I knew she loved this scent. It always relaxed her when she was stressing herself out.

“All right. Pitch me the story you want to pitch her,” I said.

“Really?” she asked.

“Mhm.”

“Well, I’d call Jennifer up and tell her about how you helped me build the gallery, about how you’re John’s brother and how we fell in love. I’d tell her about my art therapy classes and how I was inspired to keep them going, and I’d tell her about your homeless community outreach and how you were inspired to do that because of your brother.”

“No. I don’t want anything about that mentioned. I don’t do community outreach to be praised. I do it because it helps me cope with what happened to John,” I said.

“But if we took that route, then we could simply say John died. Right now, at least the way it sounds, Jennifer’s still wanting to write the fact that your brother overdosed, and that’s not what happened. I don’t feel good painting him in that light.”