And nothing is wrong. Actually, everything is very, very right, and that’s what scares me.
“What do you think?” I ask, pointing at the paint chips in all colors of gray. “I’m thinking of redoing all the bedrooms upstairs in gray.”
Liv wrinkles her nose. “Then how will you keep track of them? You can’t say, ‘Check on the couple in the yellow room’ if they’re all gray.”
“I know that. But everything I’m reading online says that gray is the color right now.” I take a sip of the coffee and eye a particular shade in something called Dove. “I usually have another five or ten reservations for next month. I know the Sweet Tea is stealing them from me.”
“Well, it’s not stealing them from you. They’re just stealing what could be yours.”
“Not helping.”
She rolls her eyes.
I sort through the paint samples and find a sage-green one that’s not on the Hot Colors list, but I do love it. Although I wonder whether that’s because it reminds me of someone’s eyes.
My weight shifts back and forth as I fan the paint card in my hand.
I pretended to be asleep this morning when Holden got up. He didn’t know I peeked as he came into my room after a shower and got dressed at the end of the bed. I’m sure he didn’t know that I felt him watching me out of the corner of his eye or that I held my breath while he pressed a ghost of a kiss to my forehead before he left.
Goose bumps break out across my skin as I remember waking up last night in his arms. He held me tight, as if he were afraid I’d get up and go. Little did he know, I wouldn’t have left if the house caught on fire.
These mornings are too sweet. The evenings ridiculously fun. The nights too . . . everything for any of this to be good for me.
But that’s the problem. It feels too good.
When I look in his eyes or feel his touch, I almost believe it’s real.
The rational part of my brain says to play it safe. But the rest of me points out that it doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels exactly as it should.
I sigh.
“What’s going on?” Liv asks.
“Huh?”
The paint sample that has been swinging back and forth stops in my palm as my gaze connects with my sister’s.
“Oh my gosh,” she almost squeals. “I get it. Or, you got it, rather, but I get it.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Can you not make a spectacle, please?”
“Oh, who cares? It’s just Old Man Grigg. What’s he care?”
“Everyone in this town gossips, Liv. Even the man born before our grandparents.”
She pops her hip to the side. “You slept with your husband. That’s not weird.”
“You just made it weird.”
She fights the grin that spreads across her face and fails. “Was it good?”
“Olivia!”
“Okay, no more. I promise. But one of these days . . .”
I shove the green card back in its slot and choose three separate gray samples. They all look the same to me, really. One might be bluer, but that’s only because I saw on the website that some grays have more blue tints in them.
“Do you like Earl or Dove?” I ask.
“Neither.”
“You’re so much help.”
She shrugs and sips her coffee.
I leave her standing there and walk a few aisles over. I have no clue what I’m doing, but I pick up a roller, a tray, and some painter’s tape. If nothing else, it’ll be a good distraction.
I chuck a paintbrush into the tray.
“Okay,” Liv says, walking up beside me. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
She blows out a breath. “Let’s try this another way. What is Holden doing today?”
“He’s working.”
I twist my lips around, willing myself to just be quiet. I don’t need to talk about this. Talking will only make it worse. Except when I look at Liv and sees she cares, it prickles something in my heart. And I need to tell her if only so she’ll be on my side. Because even though there aren’t sides in this, and there won’t be, I need someone to reassure me that it’ll all be fine.
“And,” I say, looking back at the paint supplies, “meeting with Montgomery today or tomorrow.”
“Who is that? Wait. He’s the guy from Florida or wherever, isn’t he?”
I nod.
Her eyes grow wide. “Is he still going?”
This is the question that I’ve been avoiding. Hearing it asked out loud feels like someone stabbed me in the heart with a pickax.
“Yes,” I say softly.
If hearing the question out loud hurt, hearing my answer spoken into the universe is torture. A pain that I’ve been trying so hard to keep contained breaks free inside my soul.
My chest splits in half as I take in my sister’s pity—a pity I don’t want.
“Oh, Sophie. I get it now,” she nearly whispers. “I’m sorry.”