Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

The silence on the other end of the line caused me to hold my breath. For the first time in my life, I felt I finally had Anna’s attention. She was a grown adult. She no longer had to bend to the wills and sways of Mom and Dad. If she wanted to go take a vacation to Germany, then she could. If she wanted to take voice lessons, she could.

But the hope was short-lived because when I heard her sigh, I knew she’d already talked herself out of it.

“I’m so excited for you, Hailey,” she said. “When I draw this paperwork up, we’ll get together and sign it.”

“All right. There’s this cute little retro diner across the street from the gallery that backs up to the ocean. We can eat there, and then you can come see the place.”

“I can’t wait,” she said.

“I do have one more question, though.”

“Before you even ask it, no. I haven’t met anyone.”

“Oh, come on, Hailey. You’re in San Diego, for crying out loud. Your gallery’s going to be across the road from the beach. You mean to tell me no hot man has attempted to snag that beautiful body of yours?”

“I’m more than just my body, Anna,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you’ve got killer looks. You’ve always had them. Your curvy frame, your wacky dyed hair, your light blue eyes. Come on. Someone’s looking at you, right?”

“My concentration’s on the gallery right now. You know this,” I said.

“Well, don’t let any more hunks pass you by. You’re in your prime. Allow yourself a time or two to simply enjoy yourself.”

“Look at the pot calling the kettle black!”

“Shut up,” she said.

“A corporate attorney telling an artist to live life to the fullest. Just spectacular.”

“You’re a dick, you know that?”

“Nope. But according to my little sister, I need some,” I said, grinning.

“I hate you. I’ve got to go, all right? I’ll get that paperwork done and text you when it’s ready.”

“Thanks. For everything,” I said.

“Get yourself some dick.”

“Get yourself a life that makes you happy.”

I hung up the phone with my sister as I meandered through my studio apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was mine, and it allowed me to penny-pinch every single cent I could. I walked to the window that overlooked the quietest street I cornered, and I hunched over at my table. I’d had this image swirling in my mind for days, an image I needed to get out onto paper before it drove me absolutely wild.

I could still remember his tattoos. The way they cascaded up his arms as he raised his beer. The Guinness can held proudly as his chest puffed out. His dark hair was pristinely cut, almost like someone had molded clay onto his head, and his fiery dark eyes held secrets that screamed to me during his speech. I sketched out his long legs, his feet planted firmly on the stage as a proud smirk graced his cheeks. I smudged a bit of a shadow around his figure, his body standing in front of the darkness that inevitably swallowed him after he was done.

I sketched the faint outline of the microphone held in his arm, remembering how etched his muscles were. He was beautiful. Kind. Though his eyes seemed to have been searching for something in his speech. I could still remember the way his words rang with emotion in my ears, the way his brother’s voice did when he was still alive.

I felt guilt clench my heart, startling my pencil right from between my fingers.

I’d wanted to go up and talk with him. Right after his speech. I wanted to stop him and tell him who I was. I wanted to look into his eyes and see the memories of his brother sparkle. I wanted to introduce myself, tell him my name, and shake his hand. He looked so much like his brother it was sickening, and the moment he backed into the shadows, I could no longer contain my own emotions.

My own guilt.

My own fear.

I threw back the rest of my IPA at that memorial service and left through the side entrance. I told myself it would’ve made things awkward and that my involvement in his brother’s life would be blamed for his death. I wanted to remember the better parts of John, the part that poured his heart into his paintings, that saw the world from a completely different perspective, and that found solace in the brushes and canvases I had to offer him while he was trying to get himself clean—had gotten himself clean.

I reached for my pencil, my hands shaking as the tip descended back onto his arms. He had this lovely and intricate tattoo on his right arm. A spiral, or a swirl, that looked like it was descending right into the depths of his body. When he raised his beer, I could see a rose emerge. Just the tip, but I knew it wasn’t just any old rose.