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

pieces for years. This one feels different. I don’t want to add anything because the entire canvas is an imperfection.
    “Alex?”
    Celia jars me from my thoughts, and I give her my attention.
    “Hmmm?”
    “The poppies? You were saying?”
    “Yes, right. Sorry, my mind wandered off for a moment.” I cap my paints and bring my brushes to the washbasin. “There was a poem written by a Canadian surgeon during World War I called “In Flanders Fields.” The poem tells the story of the death and destruction of the war, specifically of an area called Flanders Fields in Belgium. Over half a million soldiers died among the red poppies there. The red poppy has become a symbol of remembrance for those soldiers, and all soldiers who are lost in battle.”
    “I didn’t know that. Is that what this painting is about? The loss of a solider?”
    I chuckle softly and lower my head. “It’s much more complicated than that.”
    “Isn’t it always? Alex, you know I’m here if you ever want to talk, right?”
    I remember my conversation with Cain about Celia’s past, and I feel like she may be the perfect person to help me figure out what to do. I’d love to get her insight, but I know I need to tread lightly. I would never want to hurt Celia needlessly or reopen old wounds.
    I’ve only known Celia for a few short months, but I’ve never once seen her angry. It’s not uncommon to find a fresh flower behind her ear, and she always has a smile on her face. Of course, I know better than anyone, looks can be deceiving.
    “Can I ask you a hypothetical question, Celia?” Keeping the conversation in that way may serve to take the sting out of my questions. She nods and smiles after hopping onto a nearby stool.
    “What if you had the opportunity to talk to someone who has been lost to you for years? And by someone, I mean someone who meant everything to you. Someone who never strayed very far from your thoughts over the years.”
    “I wouldn’t have to ask myself the question. That’s a no brainer, Alex.” Celia shrugs and purses her lips.
    “Even though he could have contacted you and never made any effort to do so? It’s obvious he doesn’t feel the same, wouldn’t you say?”
    “That’s one explanation, but there could be a number of reasons.” Her voice drops down to a whisper as she stares at her clasped hands. “You know, I lost someone very close to me years ago, Alex.”
    “I’ve heard that, but I don’t know any specifics. I’m sorry, Celia. I didn’t mean to upset you—”
    “No, I’m fine. You don’t have to tiptoe around me,” Celia interrupts, her tone laced with quiet determination. “But let me tell you one thing. I would give up anything in this world to have ten minutes with the eighteen-year-old Lucas. There are so many things I would tell him. There are so many things I never had the chance to say.”
    “But he couldn’t come to you. He couldn’t come find you. That’s an entirely different circumstance.”
    “Just like you, things aren’t quite that simple. But this isn’t about him, is it? It’s about you. Or the hypothetical you.” She laughs as she throws her hands in the air, rolling her eyes.
    “At this juncture, the hypothetical me wants to punch him in his hypothetical face.” I toss the paintbrushes into the washbasin with a little extra force.
    “And you should have the opportunity to tell him that. Look, this may be the beginning of something new, where you find out things aren’t exactly as you think. Or this may be the end, where you realize he’s the jerk you think he is. If he’s a jerk, don’t rob yourself of the opportunity to tell him to fuck off,” Celia says with an innocent smile plastered to her face.
    “Fuck off, huh?”
    “Those two words can be very cathartic. You should give it a try sometime.” Celia shoots me a wink and throws her purse over her shoulder as she walks toward the exit.
    “Wait, Celia. You never said why you stopped