face and hands. Only when the brush hit the canvas did the color become known. Blue. Her chest tightened. Of course it would be blue, like his eyes.
The strokes were angry, hard, and it showed on the splotches and streaks left on the painting. The acrylic scent assaulted her nostrils in a biting yet soothingly familiar way. The image turned into a deep blue circle, uneven and bold. The longer she mindlessly worked at it, the surer her hand became, the calmer the brushstrokes, and when her hand finally fell to her lap, she stared at the door she’d created. Sara tilted her head as she examined it, wondering why, out of everything she could have made, that was what her mind had told her hand to produce.
The phone rang, startling her, and the wet paintbrush fell from her hand, making a picture of its own on the wood floor. She let out a curse, hurrying to get up without knocking anything else over, and moved for the kitchen. The shrill sound of the phone ringing caused Sara to wince as she reached for the phone. “Hello?”
“Sara? Hey. It’s Spencer. How ya been?” The nervous undertone in his voice was not lost on her.
“I’m painting.”
“Really? That’s great. I’m really glad. Mason must be helping—“
“I’m painting because he ordered me to,” she interrupted, swiping hair out of her eyes with her forearm.
“Oh.” Something like a snicker came over the line. “Sorry. At least you’re painting. You could have always said no.”
“I did. It didn’t work.”
“Mason can be intimidating, but everything he does he does with good intentions. Honestly. I wouldn’t have sent him your way if I didn’t believe that.”
Sara leaned against the fridge, rubbing her paint-covered fingers together. “Yeah.”
“Is it helping?” he asked after a pause.
“Maybe.” She didn’t know. Surprisingly, painting had ended up being therapeutic for her, though the start had been rocky.
“I hope it is.” When Sara didn’t respond, he continued, “So, uh, I was wondering…Gracie and I, we’re seeing each other again and we’re kind of having a party and I thought maybe you would want to come? I mean, Mason will be there…Lincoln, some other people. Not really a party. Well, kind of. It’s more of a get-together. For my birthday. Anyway, I thought you might want to come.”
Sara felt awful that the first thing she felt was envy and bitterness toward Spencer and Gracie for being able to rekindle their relationship. It wasn’t their fault she couldn’t be with the only person she wanted to be with; it was hers. Her throat closed and she couldn’t utter a word.
“I mean, if it’s too soon…I just thought maybe you’d like to get out, socialize, try to have some fun.”
“Having fun isn’t exactly on my to-do list,” Sara said softly, the phone pressed hard against her ear.
“Sara…come on,” he gently coaxed. “Please? If you can’t deal, then someone will take you home. Just try. Please.”
“Okay,” she whispered. As soon as the word left her, her stomach rebelled.
“Awesome. I’ll tell Lincoln to pick you up on his way over. It’s this Friday at seven. See you soon.”
The hand that held the phone went limp at her side. Sara’s brow furrowed at the thought of Lincoln picking her up. She knew it meant nothing. She knew it wasn’t a date in any way. It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t being unfaithful. It wasn’t a betrayal. No one could replace him, not even his brother. No one ever would. She knew all of that. So why did she feel so weird, so awkward, about it?
She remembered the spilt paint and grabbed a dishcloth off the side of the sink, wetting it with warm water. The rag fell from her hand with a heavy splat when she entered the art room and looked down. It was ragged and bent, but the blue paint was unmistakably in the form of a ‘C’. She stumbled back, feeling behind her blindly for something to brace herself against before she fell.
Sara landed against the
The strokes were angry, hard, and it showed on the splotches and streaks left on the painting. The acrylic scent assaulted her nostrils in a biting yet soothingly familiar way. The image turned into a deep blue circle, uneven and bold. The longer she mindlessly worked at it, the surer her hand became, the calmer the brushstrokes, and when her hand finally fell to her lap, she stared at the door she’d created. Sara tilted her head as she examined it, wondering why, out of everything she could have made, that was what her mind had told her hand to produce.
The phone rang, startling her, and the wet paintbrush fell from her hand, making a picture of its own on the wood floor. She let out a curse, hurrying to get up without knocking anything else over, and moved for the kitchen. The shrill sound of the phone ringing caused Sara to wince as she reached for the phone. “Hello?”
“Sara? Hey. It’s Spencer. How ya been?” The nervous undertone in his voice was not lost on her.
“I’m painting.”
“Really? That’s great. I’m really glad. Mason must be helping—“
“I’m painting because he ordered me to,” she interrupted, swiping hair out of her eyes with her forearm.
“Oh.” Something like a snicker came over the line. “Sorry. At least you’re painting. You could have always said no.”
“I did. It didn’t work.”
“Mason can be intimidating, but everything he does he does with good intentions. Honestly. I wouldn’t have sent him your way if I didn’t believe that.”
Sara leaned against the fridge, rubbing her paint-covered fingers together. “Yeah.”
“Is it helping?” he asked after a pause.
“Maybe.” She didn’t know. Surprisingly, painting had ended up being therapeutic for her, though the start had been rocky.
“I hope it is.” When Sara didn’t respond, he continued, “So, uh, I was wondering…Gracie and I, we’re seeing each other again and we’re kind of having a party and I thought maybe you would want to come? I mean, Mason will be there…Lincoln, some other people. Not really a party. Well, kind of. It’s more of a get-together. For my birthday. Anyway, I thought you might want to come.”
Sara felt awful that the first thing she felt was envy and bitterness toward Spencer and Gracie for being able to rekindle their relationship. It wasn’t their fault she couldn’t be with the only person she wanted to be with; it was hers. Her throat closed and she couldn’t utter a word.
“I mean, if it’s too soon…I just thought maybe you’d like to get out, socialize, try to have some fun.”
“Having fun isn’t exactly on my to-do list,” Sara said softly, the phone pressed hard against her ear.
“Sara…come on,” he gently coaxed. “Please? If you can’t deal, then someone will take you home. Just try. Please.”
“Okay,” she whispered. As soon as the word left her, her stomach rebelled.
“Awesome. I’ll tell Lincoln to pick you up on his way over. It’s this Friday at seven. See you soon.”
The hand that held the phone went limp at her side. Sara’s brow furrowed at the thought of Lincoln picking her up. She knew it meant nothing. She knew it wasn’t a date in any way. It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t being unfaithful. It wasn’t a betrayal. No one could replace him, not even his brother. No one ever would. She knew all of that. So why did she feel so weird, so awkward, about it?
She remembered the spilt paint and grabbed a dishcloth off the side of the sink, wetting it with warm water. The rag fell from her hand with a heavy splat when she entered the art room and looked down. It was ragged and bent, but the blue paint was unmistakably in the form of a ‘C’. She stumbled back, feeling behind her blindly for something to brace herself against before she fell.
Sara landed against the
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