Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

“Tristan.” My voice is wobbly from the nerves creeping through me.

Mom grins at me before walking away. “Have a great night, kids. Don’t have her back too late.”

Tristan chuckles before taking my hand and lightly brushing his lips over the back of my knuckles. “You look stunning,” he whispers, bringing his gaze back up to meet mine.

A warmth creeps up my neck and he must see me blushing because a smirk spreads across his lips. “Thank you, although you could’ve dressed up. I have to be seen in public with you, you know,” I say with a playful wink.

He shakes his head and throws his head back in a laugh, the deep rumbling surrounding us. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face at seeing him so open and carefree. He gives my hand a small squeeze before he lets go. I try to tell myself that I don’t miss the feeling of his hand on mine, but I know that I’m lying.

“After you,” he says, waving his arm in front of him.

I step out of the house and close the door behind me, walking ahead of him to the familiar car. He opens the door for me and I give him a small smile before climbing into the seat and grinning at the man in the driver’s seat.

“Hi, Ed.” He nods his head slightly before Tristan slides in the other side next to me.

We pull out onto the road and Mom’s words of wisdom run through my head. This isn’t a date; act normal.

“So… Clayton seemed a lot happier at the session this morning.”

“That’s really good to hear,” he replies, but when I turn my face toward his, I can see the worry still shining in his eyes. “He’s doing better… I think.”

“You were right to take him to the counselor. I think all he needed was to talk to someone that wasn’t so involved.” He gives me a small smile before facing forward and I look down at my hands when nothing else is said.

My gaze flits to the rearview mirror and I see Ed peering back at me, but he looks away quickly. I feel like the teenagers we once were, being driven around by him at our beck and call.

When I first met Tristan all those years ago, I couldn’t understand why he had a driver. He had a car of his own, so to me there was no need to be driven around. It wasn’t until I met Ed that I realized he wasn’t just his driver, he was his role model—the person he looked up to the most.

My eyes scan the inside of the car as my fingers trail along the black stitching on the leather seats. Tristan has upgraded since I was last in the back of a car with him —then again, it has been ten years.

I blow out a breath as we drive through the city, trying to rid myself of all the warring thoughts rolling through my head again. Sitting this close to him has my whole body tensing but relaxing in a way that hasn’t happened since I was last in his arms. Even my own body is confused and betraying me.

Ed pulls into the lot and I look out of the window, seeing the pop-up gallery that is taking place in what looks like an abandoned warehouse.

Only this is more than a warehouse.

The steel structure is covered in glass that in turn is covered with splatters of paint. The lights that are attached to the top of the glass shine off the surface, illuminating the different colors and making different shapes with the paint.

They’re not random splatters—the longer I stare at them, the more formation I see, and I gasp. That’s amazing.

My eyes widen the more shapes and figures I make out and then the lights change color and so does the paint. They flash three times quickly and then flash to a different beat.

This is why he’s an amazing artist and is where he is today—because of things like this. Not everyone could think this up and pull it off.

“Harm?” I startle and look up at the sound of Tristan’s voice so close to me. I didn’t even notice him getting out of the car, too entranced with the building. “Are you ready to go inside?” he asks, extending his hand out to me.

“Sure.” I climb out of the car, with the help of Tristan, and my eyes scan the building again. “Wow. He sure knows how to make an impression.”

Tristan turns around and looks at the building, his brows flying up his forehead. “Wow is right.”

He mutters something to Ed as I stare at the paint patterns, mesmerized, and then he places his arm out for me to hold onto and guides me over to the entrance.

My heels click against the concrete ground and I look up, seeing that the inside is as mesmerizing as the outside. The steel beams that are around the outside structure are inside too, only they’re scattered around, splattered with different colored paint. I make out neon greens mixed with purples and oranges, creating shapes and making the beams look almost texturized. The lights in here don’t flash like they did outside, instead they slowly switch color, changing the way each individual beam looks.

My eyes scan all of the people in here and I frown. There can’t be more than fifty people in this large space. My eyes widen; this must be an exclusive event.

My gaze travels further to the right and my breaths stutter in my chest when I see the first painting hanging from the steel beams that run across the top of the structure. I immediately make a beeline for it, forgetting about Tristan who is standing next to me. I can’t hold in my excitement any longer.

I stop in front of the painting: a woman’s face is made out of shapes and she’s staring off into the distance. Like on the beams, there’s lights trained on the canvas, changing intermittently and making it look like her facial expression is changing from sad and filled with longing, to happy.