You can’t force art.
But today, sitting here, with thoughts of Chase swimming thick as gesso in my mind, I’ve felt expressive, in-touch with my own emotions in a way I haven’t been since… maybe ever.
It’s wonderful and terrifying, happy and heartbreaking all at the same time.
I can’t think about it — about him — so I slip off my stool and turn my back on the colorful canvas.
Lifting my arms above my head, I crane my neck and bow my back, sending instant relief to my cramped muscles. Whenever I spend hours painting, I feel like a frail, ninety-year-old with arthritic joints, as though expending so much artistic energy has aged me decades, rather than hours.
Stomach rumbling, I wander from the enclosed porch into the kitchen, hoping there’s some food in the fridge… and feel my jaw drop open.
Because my mother isn’t locked away sculpting in the back room.
She’s sitting right there at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea, casual as can be.
And Chase Bossy-Is-My-Middle-Name Croft is in the seat across from her.
***
“Hey,” he says casually.
My mouth gapes. “You did not just sayheyto me.”
His eyebrows go up.
“You did not just sayheyto me like it’s no big deal that you’re here, in my childhood home, sitting at the table across from my mother, having a freaking tea party.”
His lips quirk up in a shameless grin. “Sorry, sunshine, but I did.”
A sound escapes my mouth — a scream, a squeal, it’s not easy to classify — and my eyes slide to my mother, who’s looking all too pleased with herself.
“Mom, tell me you had nothing to do with this.”
“Gemma, you know I don’t like to lie.”
Betrayed by my own flesh and blood!
“Bu…wha…” The sound squeaks from my throat again, louder this time. “This isn’t…”
They both stare at me, expressions amused.
“Why?” I finally manage to ask.
Chase stands. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“It’s not my phone,” I say immediately.
“Fine,” he agrees, stepping closer. “You weren’t answering the phone I gave you.”
I shuffle back a step, keeping a safe amount of distance between us. “When a girl ignores your calls, it usually means she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“You want to talk to me.”
“I do not!”
He grins — the good grin, the panty-dropping one — and I feel a few of the butterflies I thought were long-dead flutter back to life in the pit of my stomach.
Perfect. Justperfect.