room?”
“It’s a long story.” And time to change the subject. “What do you think so far?”
“It’s interesting. I never expected to see these face jugs.” She turned toward the pictures hanging on the walls. Most of them were old renderings of the courthouse or the shops around the square. As she studied them, he watched. Her expression said they were good, but not unique. Then, she noticed a soft light illuminating a picture in a dark corner at the back of the gallery. As she moved toward it, dread built in him.
In that moment, he knew bringing her here had been a colossal mistake.
*
Ryan was mesmerized by the painting.
It was of three football players from the perspective of inside the huddle. They held hands with their heads bowed, and their pained expressions could be seen behind the facemasks. Mud and grass stains smeared their uniforms. The sky above them was dark and angry and the scoreboard behind them indicated the final score was seven to zero. Ryan waited for the rest of the story to unfold. Were the players the winners? The pain in their eyes seemed much deeper than anything caused by a losing score. Had they suffered injuries?
She turned to speak to Justin, but he’d walked to the other end of the gallery. The gray-haired woman came out of the back room and stood next to her. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? I moved it back here after the accident. It sort of keeps her with me.”
Accident?
“Who’s the artist?”
“Oh, I assumed you knew. See here.” She pointed to the signature:
C. Hayes
. “Chelsea. Justin’s sister.”
“Sister?” She heard the door rattle and watched him step outside. Her heart beat a little faster. “The one who was killed in the car wreck?”
“Oh, it was terrible. Our precious Chelsea was the driver.”
The appreciation he had for art—the emotion she’d seen in his eyes when he talked about it—all came from his sister. Why hadn’t he told her? She was bound to find out somehow. If he hadn’t wanted her to know, why had he brought her to the gallery?
The woman wrung her hands and looked at Ryan. “The family hasn’t been the same since. Poor Justin. He and Chelsea were thick as thieves. He’s been a little lost without his sister, full of anger… but he’s a good kid.”
Why are you telling me this? I’m just a friend. I don’t need to know these things. I don’t need to know his secrets.
Ryan looked toward the door. “I’d better go…”
The woman followed her. “I hope you come back. It would be nice if you could bring Justin.”
“Thanks. I’ll try.” She had to get outside. Had to find him.
She didn’t have to look far. He sat on a metal bench that had been bolted to the sidewalk halfway between the gallery and the store next to it. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
So, now what? God, this is so awkward.
She practically tiptoed to the bench. He didn’t move a muscle—even his eyes seemed fixed. She took a shaky breath and sat next to him. She hugged her purse to her, swallowed, and waited for him to speak.
Nothing. He didn’t move.
She should say something. What? She released the hold she had on her purse and rested her hand on the seat of the bench. She practiced in her head what she could say.
I’m sorry about your sister. Do you want to talk about it?
No. If he had wanted to talk about it, he would’ve.
I’m sorry about your sister. She was such a good artist—and now she’s dead.
No! You idiot. How about:
Would you freaking talk to me? You’re the one who suggested we come. You’re the one who brought me here.
She looked at him and looked away. She tried to form words in her throat, but it felt a little like it was collapsing.
He broke the silence with a deep sigh and leaned back. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his jeans and then grabbed Ryan’s hand. He curled his fingers around hers, drew it across his lap, and cupped it with his other hand. It didn’t feel like a flirty
“It’s a long story.” And time to change the subject. “What do you think so far?”
“It’s interesting. I never expected to see these face jugs.” She turned toward the pictures hanging on the walls. Most of them were old renderings of the courthouse or the shops around the square. As she studied them, he watched. Her expression said they were good, but not unique. Then, she noticed a soft light illuminating a picture in a dark corner at the back of the gallery. As she moved toward it, dread built in him.
In that moment, he knew bringing her here had been a colossal mistake.
*
Ryan was mesmerized by the painting.
It was of three football players from the perspective of inside the huddle. They held hands with their heads bowed, and their pained expressions could be seen behind the facemasks. Mud and grass stains smeared their uniforms. The sky above them was dark and angry and the scoreboard behind them indicated the final score was seven to zero. Ryan waited for the rest of the story to unfold. Were the players the winners? The pain in their eyes seemed much deeper than anything caused by a losing score. Had they suffered injuries?
She turned to speak to Justin, but he’d walked to the other end of the gallery. The gray-haired woman came out of the back room and stood next to her. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? I moved it back here after the accident. It sort of keeps her with me.”
Accident?
“Who’s the artist?”
“Oh, I assumed you knew. See here.” She pointed to the signature:
C. Hayes
. “Chelsea. Justin’s sister.”
“Sister?” She heard the door rattle and watched him step outside. Her heart beat a little faster. “The one who was killed in the car wreck?”
“Oh, it was terrible. Our precious Chelsea was the driver.”
The appreciation he had for art—the emotion she’d seen in his eyes when he talked about it—all came from his sister. Why hadn’t he told her? She was bound to find out somehow. If he hadn’t wanted her to know, why had he brought her to the gallery?
The woman wrung her hands and looked at Ryan. “The family hasn’t been the same since. Poor Justin. He and Chelsea were thick as thieves. He’s been a little lost without his sister, full of anger… but he’s a good kid.”
Why are you telling me this? I’m just a friend. I don’t need to know these things. I don’t need to know his secrets.
Ryan looked toward the door. “I’d better go…”
The woman followed her. “I hope you come back. It would be nice if you could bring Justin.”
“Thanks. I’ll try.” She had to get outside. Had to find him.
She didn’t have to look far. He sat on a metal bench that had been bolted to the sidewalk halfway between the gallery and the store next to it. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
So, now what? God, this is so awkward.
She practically tiptoed to the bench. He didn’t move a muscle—even his eyes seemed fixed. She took a shaky breath and sat next to him. She hugged her purse to her, swallowed, and waited for him to speak.
Nothing. He didn’t move.
She should say something. What? She released the hold she had on her purse and rested her hand on the seat of the bench. She practiced in her head what she could say.
I’m sorry about your sister. Do you want to talk about it?
No. If he had wanted to talk about it, he would’ve.
I’m sorry about your sister. She was such a good artist—and now she’s dead.
No! You idiot. How about:
Would you freaking talk to me? You’re the one who suggested we come. You’re the one who brought me here.
She looked at him and looked away. She tried to form words in her throat, but it felt a little like it was collapsing.
He broke the silence with a deep sigh and leaned back. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his jeans and then grabbed Ryan’s hand. He curled his fingers around hers, drew it across his lap, and cupped it with his other hand. It didn’t feel like a flirty
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