Wings Over Poppies (Over #2) by J.A. DeRouen Page A

that gift. Whatever happens going forward, today is a day to rejoice. Just let it out.”
    I don’t know how long she sits with me, but my sobs slowly recede, and my mind begins to process the possibilities of West. Where does he live? Is he married? Does he ever think of me? Why has he never contacted me?
    “I can hear those wheels turning in your head, so why don’t you let me tell you what I know instead of drowning in speculation?” She gently touches my chin, tipping my head up to hers. I nod slightly, and she reaches over to grab a sheet of paper off her desk. She holds it face down in her lap, and I clasp my hands together to stop myself from grabbing it from her.
    “I don’t have all the specifics, but I’ll tell you what I know. West Adler returned from the Middle East two years ago. That would coincide with him fulfilling his four-year commitment, but I’m unsure of the details surrounding his discharge from the military. I do know that he was a medic while he served. He now attends college and works part-time at a physical therapist’s office.”
    She stops suddenly and seems to be checking in with me to see how I’m handling all of this. Honestly, I’m not sure what to tell her. After years of living in the dark, I feel blessed, bombarded, blindsided. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s every word I’ve ever wanted to hear.
    “Okay,” I whisper, not capable of saying anything else. It’s taking everything in me to process her words and continue to breathe in and out. I can’t be expected to respond intelligently.
    The longer her pause, the more worry creeps into my heart. Just say it! Her fingers fiddle nervously with the paper she’s holding, and I become afraid of the words on the other side. I inhale deeply, sitting up straight in the chair and clasping my hands in front of me. As I slowly exhale, Caroline turns the sheet of paper over and places it in my hands.
    “Alex, my sweet girl, he’s local.”

 
    “ Far Away ” by Nickelback
     
     
    I ANGRILY SWEEP the brush across the canvas in wide, broad strokes. There’s no finesse in the task. The red paint calls to me, and I instinctually answer. This is not about technique. It’s an emptying of emotion.
    Classical piano spills from my workroom stereo. It’s an uncommon choice for me while working. I don’t think I can stomach any verses of love or devotion at this point, and isn’t that what every song boils down to?
    I do my best to push the speculation and rejection away and just feel the work. I don’t approach the painting with any particular idea in mind. It creates itself, and I let it guide me. I have become known for my paintings of wings of every variety, so I’m as surprised as anyone else at my finished product.
    A fucking poppy.
    But this poppy is anything but perfect. The petals are hardening with age and cracking in places. Some are slightly wilted, but the red is as vibrant as the first day it bloomed. The flower may wither, but the color remains stunning as ever. Not everything changes. Some things in life defy time, age, and all reasonable logic.
    “Wow, Alex, it’s just stunning.” Celia approaches me from behind. “I feel such emotion from it. It actually hurts to look at it.”
    “It hurt to paint it,” I whisper, turning around to place my brush on the counter. “How did you get in?”
    “The front of the gallery is locked, but I saw your bicycle tied to the lamp post. I took a chance and tried the back door. You left it unlocked.” She looks back and forth between the painting and me. “That’s a poppy, right?”
    “Yes, it’s a poppy. Do you know anything about the significance of poppies?” I ask, thinking back on the research I’ve done throughout the years.
    “Other than poppies have been getting people high for centuries? Not much at all.”
    I turn back to the canvas and search for areas that may need touching up. I wonder if I should add an imperfection, like I’ve done to all my