Every Day (Brush of Love 2)

“My parents, they’re just—”

I saw him clench his jaw before he drew in a long breath through his nose.

“I told them what you told me about John,” he said.

My blood ran cold. What had they said to him? What had happened at that dinner? Did they know the two of them were back together?

“Bryan, I should’ve been with you at that dinner,” I said as I took his hand.

“No, I’m glad you weren’t,” he said, sighing. “It was very telling of the people they’re determined to be.”

“What happened?” I asked. “What did they say?”

“They told me you were lying and that I needed to distance myself from people like you and Drew.”

“How did Drew enter the conversation?” I asked.

“He’s thinking of leaving the company to start his own tattoo parlor,” he said.

I reached out and wrapped my hands around his, pulling them to my lips for a series of long, warm kisses that seemed to relax him.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“I’m not. I want him to be happy. He’s very talented, and I know he’ll do well.”

“What else did they say?” I asked.

“They didn’t believe John was capable of becoming sober, much less doing what he could to save you. They accused you of moving to San Diego to track me down to get a piece of the other brother or something like that.”

I could see the hesitancy in his eyes, and I knew he’d been dwelling on that statement. I rose up and leaned closer to him, turning his gaze toward mine before I planted a small kiss on his lips. I felt him pucker them, but his body stayed rigid and rooted to the chair like he was spellbound by a curse.

“John and I were never intimate, Bryan, and I did not come to San Diego to track you down,” I said.

I saw him visibly relax as I sat back down in my chair.

“They’re determined to write John out of their life. They are perfectly happy with continuing to think he was a junkie who died by his own damn needle. So, I told them that until they were capable of seeing the monsters they’d turned into, they didn’t have to call me and shouldn’t expect me for dinners.”

I wanted to protest. I wanted to tell him that a relationship with his parents was important. I wanted to warn him about the road he was traveling down, about how lonely it was during birthdays and the holidays without parents to spend them with and without parents to call you or send you cards or get you gifts or wrap their arms around you.

But they had done and said so much to him, and I found it harder and harder to defend their relationship with him.

“Whatever you choose, I’ll support you,” I said.

“Thanks. But there’s one more thing.”

“What is it?”

“I need closure,” he said as tears filled his eyes. “I-I need a way to close that chapter in my life.”

“Bryan, whatever you need, I’ll do.”

“I want you to showcase John’s paintings.”

I felt my blood run cold as my hands tightened around his.

“I want you to put his paintings up on the walls of this gallery and sell them. I want to pay you for the space. Do a special nighttime thing to usher in his artwork before you run normal hours on them. I want to have wine and snacks and low-playing music, the whole nine yards. I want his paintings to see the light of day and find their homes like his cabin painting found me.”

I felt my heart take flight with his words. A small smile crossed my face as my eyes connected with his, and for an instant, I could’ve sworn I saw him grin.