Every Day (Brush of Love 2)

“Take it back,” he said.

“That very statement proves you know I’m right. Don’t bother calling me for these dinners, or anything else for that matter, until you can actually admit it. I was finally able to and so was Hailey. In my eyes, she’s better than the two of you combined will ever be.”

“Take it back!” my father roared.

“Until you can accept your part in your own son’s death and acknowledge your bad fucking attitudes and apologize for them, lose my fucking number.”

“Bryan, wait!” my mother exclaimed.

But all I did was wrench from my father’s grasp and slam their front door behind me.

“You are the most ungrateful child I’ve ever known!” my father yelled from the porch. “You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself. You’ve always been selfish.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blame it on someone else,” I said, murmuring.

I hopped behind the wheel of my truck and quickly made my way out of their driveway. I drove all the way to the end of the concrete descent from hell before I turned and made my way back to my home. I settled back against the seat of my truck as my mind went numb and blank while I drove through the small streets of the corner of the world my parents had secured as their own.

For the first time in years, I didn't look back at their house as I drove away.

Chapter 18

Hailey

The cool November morning ushered in an awakening. My mind and soul were buzzing ever since I’d seen Bryan. My soul felt happier, and my gallery felt brighter. Every single time I thought about how I woke up next to him, a grin crossed my face. Falling asleep in his arms had been like a dream, and it wasn’t until I’d woken up that morning and felt his arms tighten around me that I’d convinced myself it had happened.

Bryan was back in my life.

Breakfast that morning had consisted of us talking over a bowl of cereal. Nothing fancy and nothing show-stopping. We laid in bed and stared at one another, blushing and smiling while our fingertips danced around each other. His body gravitated back toward mind as he rolled me over onto my back, and that morning, we reprised our chorus from the night before. My presence sang out for him as tears crested my eyes, falling down my cheeks while my orgasm had ripped through my body.

I couldn’t believe he was back.

I felt a new breath of life filling my lungs. My walls were covered in seasonal paintings that had been inspired by Bryan’s life-giving kiss. Cornucopias of acorns and leaves and mountain scenes with dying trees and animals bathing in the cold autumn sun lined my walls. I felt as if my soul had taken flight and was slowly levitating up toward the clouds. It couldn’t get any better than this.

It simply wasn’t possible.

The lunch rush came and went, so I meandered over to the cash register and pulled out my lunch. This was the routine I’d slowly sunken into with the gallery. Mornings were spent rearranging and restocking, and the lunch rush took up most of my energy. I’d be able to eat once they were all gone, and then there was always a rush before I closed down at seven. I sat down on my stool, pulled out my sandwich, and started to take a bite.

But I sighed when the bell over my door rang out, signaling someone had entered the store.

“Don’t mind me,” the familiar accent said. “Just looking around.”

It was Max. Again. He was coming by more frequently to check in on his paintings. I took a tentative bite of my sandwich, watching him while his eyes flickered along the new paintings I’d hung up. I could see his eyes fluttering over the brighter pictures from the woman who painted out of her home, but the moment his eyes fell onto his painting, I knew I was in for a treat.

Because his most recent painting had been hanging on the wall since mid-October.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Like I said, these things take time.”

“But the brushstrokes are perfection. Not choppy, like yours,” he said.

“Uh, yes,” I said. “Your brushstrokes are more languid.”

“And the colors blend more cohesively than yours. The smoothness should call to people,” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“And this woman, with her bright colors and her little dots, how in the world does she paint all her paintings with little dots? You can still see part of the canvas.”