Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“You should take photos of your work to show your family.” I stepped closer, aching to feel the warmth of his skin. “Especially your dad, so he can finally appreciate your talent.”
My tone was laced with frustration, and when our eyes met, I could see the wariness in his. I wanted to ask so many things, but I’d wait him out. See what this meeting was all about. Remy didn’t seem in any rush to get out of there or find a quiet place to hook up.
He shook his head. “I’ve sent some shots to Mom, but not these.”
“Why not?” I stared at the painting. Was he not proud enough of his work?
“Because they’re not finished—not by my standards.” He dabbed at the canvas with his brush. “I’d rather invite them to my art exhibit end of next semester so they can see the entire collection.”
“That makes sense. I don’t know why I have the privilege of seeing your work for a second time, but—”
“You honestly don’t know why?” When he turned to me, I zeroed in on the spots of paint on his forearm instead of melting into his striking blue irises.
“Because we’ve become friends?” I hoped that was still true because the idea of losing this contact with him made me nauseous.
“Nope. Think Derek has seen my art?”
“Yes?” My voice sounded wobbly and thick with emotion.
“He hasn’t.” I held back a gasp as he placed the brush down and wiped his hands on a nearby rag. “I wanna show you something.”
“Is it the supply closet?” I teased, but my stomach was all fluttery.
“Maybe after?” he joked as he reached for something behind the easel.
It was another painting, a piece I hadn’t seen during my last visit. But I recognized what it was immediately as he propped it against the wall. It was a rendition of Hummingbird Lake.
“This is new,” I said with wonder in my voice because it was understated in its beauty. The sunrise was just cresting over the horizon, casting a yellow glow in a large swath across the dark water.
“I don’t know if it’ll fit in my collection, but I needed to paint it,” he replied with conviction.
“Why?” I motioned to the canvas. “I mean, besides the obvious reasons.”
It was a childhood memory, after all. And one from when his family was still seemingly intact. I frowned, my heart going out to him because of all the stress he’d been under back then—and since.
“The idea came to me after our walk on the beach.” That was the night Bailey found out about us, so I looked back on that whole day with a mix of fondness and melancholy. “At first, I drew our view of the ocean with the moon illuminating the water, but that didn’t feel right.”
“It didn’t?” I felt breathless, my heart creeping up my throat.
“No. Because even though it was an important moment, it wasn’t the one I needed to paint.”
Compelled, I moved closer to the canvas, angling my head to take in all the details. The view was as if Remy were standing inside the cottage, glancing toward the water. Everything looked just as I remembered, down to the pine trees on the opposite shore. There was the firepit where we’d roasted marshmallows and the steps leading to the dock where we’d practiced our dives. And that was when I spotted two figures on the wooden slats. I squinted to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me because they were sitting close, their shoulders pressed so flush, they almost seemed joined together.
“This is…” Tears sprang to my eyes, but I didn’t even know why. They clogged my throat, and I was unable to get any words out. The image reminded me of our morning on the dock before everything fell apart in the Duval family.
“Can you…?” I heard him gulp as if nervous. Then he inclined his head and motioned at the canvas. “Can you see what’s carved into the dock?”
That was when I remembered how Remy’s fingers were continuously moving back then, tracing imaginary letters and images in his head as if always itching to create art. One of the figures’ hands was splayed on the wooden slat, and directly below it were some words. Words that were so overwhelming they made me weak.
He’s the soft center of my heart,
And I’m the hardened edges.
I wind myself around him,
Until we meld into one.
“God, Remy…I… Have you been holding out on me? Since when are you some sort of poet?” My skin felt hot all over like I was going to faint. I didn’t know what to do with that. What to do with Remy being vulnerable like this. I didn’t know if I was even worthy of this, of him. Not when he was this stunning. “Is that really the way you see…this…us?”