by Alex Kidwell
I could hear Anna’s laugh, like church bells, and I nudged Brady with my shoulder. “And we have cupcakes,” I reminded him quietly. “Don’t forget the cupcakes.”
“How could I forget cupcakes?” He sounded scandalized, our fingers tangling together, resting against my hip as we dodged around a woman walking her dog, as the wind played catch with the autumn leaves. “Anyway, Anna, who do you have doing the event that week?” Apparently whatever name she said was not impressive to him. Brady’s nose creased up and he shook his head. “Okay, here’s what is going to happen. You are hiring me that week. Whatever you’re paying that schmuck with a hard-on for pastels, you’re knocking off twenty percent and that’ll be my fee.”
Shocked, I pulled back a little. I knew Annabeth’s gallery. It had an impressive array of artists, mostly through Anna’s hard work, but it was fairly minimalist. She wasn’t one for splurging on events. And I’d seen what Brady did. He was kind of out of Anna’s league.
“Brady,” I started, but he just leaned into my side, kissing my cheek. “You don’t have to do that.”
Annabeth was saying the same thing on her end of the phone. “Both of you hush. My boyfriend is not going to have some raggedy cheese tray and cheap wine at his opening. I want to do this.” He fixed me with a look, arching an eyebrow. “Seriously, babe. This is kind of my thing. Let me do this, okay?”
After a beat I nodded, and Brady beamed at me. I admit it was kind of ridiculously sweet he wanted to make a big deal about the opening. Of course, it just made me worry I was going to bomb out big time—it’d been more than two years since I painted. What if I sucked? What if I’d always sucked and now everyone would know it? I’d had shows before, sure, but for some reason this felt like I was doing it all over again for the first time—same nerves as I’d had when I was eighteen and managed to convince a gallery owner to give me two feet of space to display my work.
But Brady’s arm was warm around me, and he kept smiling as he and Anna discussed particulars and he talked about fabrics and menus. That cold knot of worry in my gut eased, just a little. I could do this. Aaron used to tell me I was never more myself than when I was creating, when I had a brush in my hand. When I painted he could see the entirety of my soul laid out bare in colors and strokes. For so long I’d been convinced whatever spark I had was taken with Aaron, had withered and fallen with him. Now, though, I thought I had just been waiting for a new story.
The art shop was nearly empty, and we spent a good twenty minutes just poking around, Brady happily carrying the basket while I hunted for just the right materials. I loved this smell, the oil and turpentine, the heavy weight of brushes between my fingers, the rough white expanse of canvases begging to be used. When we headed back to Brady’s apartment under our heavy load of bags, I felt good. I felt like the jagged pieces were finding a new way to fit and maybe, maybe, I could recapture a little bit of what I used to be.
I set my things aside while Brady fussed over the frittata. Wine was poured and we settled in, comfortable together, enjoying the meal. I put on some music, and Brady told me about his day, about upcoming projects, about meetings and menus and developing a bacon-wrapped cod entree for a wedding. I loved to listen to him; there was such excitement in his voice as he described his events, a kind of easy happiness and confidence in what he was doing. He was a storyteller, just as much as I was; his canvases were rooms and plates, but his art was no less vivid.
And he’d been right, all those weeks ago. I was completely smitten.
The memory made me laugh and Brady paused, fork halfway to his mouth, fixing me with a look. “Everything alright, Quinn?” he asked, confused smile curving up one corner of his lips.
“I was just thinking about what you told me, the night we first met.” Reaching across the table, I brushed his hair back, expression soft when he turned to catch my fingertips in a kiss. “You were right. I am smitten.”
The grin that crossed his face was nothing short of breathtaking. Pushing my plate back, I tugged him to stand with me, ignoring the dishes and the half-empty glasses of wine. Eyes on his, I pulled him back toward his bedroom, my own smile growing while his turned positively wicked.
With a laugh he pushed forward, catching me, our breaths mingling into a kiss. Clothes were tugged off and left behind, bare skin found its match, and both of us forgot everything for a while. The strands of music mingled with panted gasps, with moans, with the quiet cry of ecstasy. I came with his name on my lips, his mouth around me, my hands threaded in beautiful blond curls. And for a time, for an endless hour, it was only the two of us. And I was happy.
WE’D eaten cupcakes in bed, and I painted frosting trails down his stomach and licked him clean. The memory still made a jolt of heat hit me; Lord knew I’d never look at a cupcake the same way again. He’d laughed, God, and it felt like the world was all right. Like all that grief and mourning I’d buried myself in was melting, bit by bit, dripping away in the light of his spring. He’d been sensual and sweet and I responded, I’d been carried away in it.
Sleep had come easier with him beside me. Waking up next to him had made the whole morning seem better. Such simple domesticity was almost painfully dear, now that I knew how it felt to lose it all.
Making breakfast, splitting the last cup of coffee, discovering he liked enough cream in his to turn it pale but no sugar—“Moderation,” he’d teased, with a sleep-tousled smile—every moment of newness was becoming a favorite. How he clutched the pillow in his sleep; how we used the same shampoo; how he warmed my towel in the dryer while I showered; how much we seemed to fit. I’d wanted to stay there forever, to compare childhoods and favorite meals and watch old movies until we fell asleep again. But sadly, reality had intruded.
Now he was at work and I was back in my studio, charcoal sketches pinned around me, materials at hand, and a blank, accusing canvas staring at me. Waiting.
“What are you looking at?” I muttered to it crossly, fiddling with first one brush and then the other. Trying to find the perfect one.
I was stalling. There was nothing more terrifying than a completely empty page, than an untouched canvas. All the possibilities of what I could imagine were still out there, until that first stroke. Before I began was when I was most afraid; it was when all the half-formed ideas and imaginings were still clamoring to be heard.
Picking up the phone, I dialed Brady’s number, patiently waiting through the rings. When he answered I asked, without preamble, “I need you to yell at me.”
There was a pause and he huffed out a laugh. “I don’t suppose you’re going to provide a topic?”
“I’m just sitting here, looking at the canvas. I need to be motivated.” I settled onto my stool, contemplating my brushes again. “So you should yell at me.”
Brady hummed an agreement; I could hear him moving, the sound of a door closing. Then, loudly, he commanded, “Quinn O’Malley, get your pert ass in gear and paint something.”
I’d jumped at the volume of his voice, nearly knocking the paints to the ground. Okay. That was definitely yelling.
“Did it work?” he asked.
“You’re very authoritative,” I assured him. The ice had been broken, though. The tense, horrible knot of “I can’t” had faded a bit, and I chose my brush, dipped it into the blue mixed with a bit of white, and slid the bristles across the fabric in front of me. It was a beginning, a humble one, but with that the floodgates were opened. I absently put my phone on speaker and set it on the table while I worked.
“And you aren’t even listening to me anymore, are you?” Brady’s voice came from the cell, and I merely made a quiet noise of agreement, moving to a red-gold next. “Fine,” he continued. “I can take a hint. But keep this Thursday open. I told you I’m going to be hugely busy for the next few days, but Thursday night, my family is going to be in town. I want them to meet you.”
Wait. What?
I fumbled for the phone. “Brady?”
“Don’t wor
ry,” he assured me. “It’s just my mom and dad and my sisters. We’ll go out for dinner, and you can even leave early if you want. Just pop in to say hi. Okay?”
Crap. I wasn’t good at families. Mine had just been me and my parents, and when they’d died I’d been alone. I didn’t get siblings or big Christmases or Sunday dinners. It had been a really long time since I’d even had to think about things like that. Aaron had been disowned by his family when he’d come out, and I’d never even spoken to them until the funeral. Meeting the folks was definitely a new experience.
But it was what people did. So I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah,” I added, when I realized he couldn’t see me. “Okay. I’ll just stop in for dessert, maybe? Low-key.”
“I can do low-key,” he promised. “But really, hon, you don’t have to worry. They are going to adore you.”
I nodded again, worrying my lip.
He sighed at me. “I can hear you fretting from here,” he teased, gently. “Listen, how about you call me tonight when you get home? I’m going to be working late the next two days, but we’ll talk on the phone before you go to bed and we can decide what you want to do. All you need to do now is concentrate on painting. My parents will keep if you don’t think you can meet them yet.”
“Yeah.” I studied my brushes, the bright swaths of colors already forming the outline of the first piece. “Hey, come on. Families are good, right? And they made you, so they’re probably good people.” I smiled a little, still nervous, but sure about this part at least. “I’ll call you tonight. But tell your mom and everyone I’m looking forward to meeting them.”
“You’re kind of amazing, Quinn,” Brady told me, fondness in his voice.
I just smiled, murmuring, “You’re not so bad yourself. Now leave me alone, slacker. I’m trying to create.”
He laughed and hung up. Turning back to my canvas, I blew out a slow breath. Right. Families were easy. Piece of cake.
UNFORTUNATELY, when Brady said he’d be busy, he meant it. I hadn’t thought I’d mind—really, I did understand work was important; I wasn’t that needy. But I did miss him. We talked on the phone every night, even if it was only for a few minutes, and he texted me when he could through the day, but I missed him. The presence of him, the way he smiled. How he kissed me in the morning. Things I’d just begun to get used to I already was craving.
Still, it did leave me with ample time to both run the shop and paint. It was strange I’d been so apprehensive about starting. Once I’d made myself begin, once the paint had coated the canvases, it was like I remembered what it was like to breathe again. All those possibilities I’d held inside, all those ideas and half-formed stories, they were rushing from my fingertips like a wave.
In three days I’d completed one piece and started a second. Which was ridiculously fast, but that first one had been so liberating I’d barely put my brush down. It’d purged the cobwebs from me, the stale air from my lungs. Now I’d settled into the second of the series, and I felt like I’d gotten my sea legs back a bit.
That night, I was meeting Brady’s parents. Just a casual dinner at a nearby Italian place he liked. They did have the best marinara sauce in the city. I’d also had their leeks and prosciutto in cream sauce over pasta once and had promptly changed my will to insist I be buried in a vat of it. Even if the night was terrible and awkward, at least I’d eat well.
My phone chirped a few times before the noise penetrated. I’d been painting the dawn, the god of the sun emerging from the sea, and the delicate blush of rose against the water had captivated my attention. I hadn’t noticed the time slipping past, much less the sound of my phone. Reaching for it, I paused to stretch. I never realized how stiff I was until I moved again.
There were a series of texts from Brady, showing him and his sisters around town. They’d gone to the zoo today and shopping. His sisters looked like him, tall and gorgeous, with the same curl-ridden hair. His younger sister had freckles, though, but all three of them had the same infectious smile.
Miss you today. Can’t wait for tonight.
I smiled at the text, rubbing my thumb across the screen as if I could touch the sound of his voice, could capture the warmth seven simple words gave me. I sent back “me too” and set the phone aside. Cracking my neck, I lifted my arms above my head, absently stretching, studying my progress. Just a little longer, I thought. A little bit more before I stopped.
Hours passed in a blur, the sweet-sharp smell of oil paints as familiar and welcoming to me as coming home. When Aaron had died, I’d honestly thought my inspiration had gone with him. I was not a technical artist, not one of the greats. When I painted, when I found my stories, they seemed to spring up from some deep well of emotions, of sensations that begged to pour out and over. With Aaron gone, I’d simply dried up.
I wasn’t going to pin my resurgence of creative desire solely on Brady. That wouldn’t be fair—to give one person that much responsibility, to shoulder him with the burden of my life, of my hopes and wants—but he’d breathed into me again. He’d warmed me, thawed me, like I’d been wrapped in ice and he was fire itself. The dawn breaking, perhaps, to go totally poetic.
When I finally pulled myself away from my work, I only had time to scrub the smears of paint off my skin and change before I was due at the restaurant. It was a short walk away, and I relished the bite of cold in the air, the crisp smell of snow. The fall was dying out, spreading withered brown leaves across the streets in a blanket, preparing for winter’s first hit. There’d been frost on my window that morning; soon the whole world would be a whirl of white.
I wondered if the fireplace in Brady’s apartment was functional. I kept meaning to ask. Perhaps after the exhibit was over, we could take a few days and hole up inside, drink hot chocolate and watch movies, make love in front of a fire. Christmas was coming. This year, I decided suddenly, I’d get a real tree. Aaron had been allergic and they’d always seemed like so much work to me, all the needles that would fall, the sap. But this Christmas was my first with Brady, and maybe I needed a little bit of a mess.
The restaurant was warm enough that the tip of my nose burned as I came inside from the cold. Brady wasn’t there yet, so I curled myself into a chair in the waiting area, content to people watch. There was a loud, boisterous family there, children settled in parents’ laps, wine poured for the adults, sharing bites of huge platters and laughing together. In the corner was a couple, sharing low conversation. Across the room was another pair, much older, their hands laced together on the table as they ate in contented silence.
There was life in the room and I relished it. It hurt, still, to see people in love, to know that Aaron and I would never be the white-haired couple sharing an evening meal. Of course it did. And I was beginning to think parts of me would always ache for him. I was bigger than that loss, though; at least, I wanted to be. I wanted to be endless on the inside, huge enough to hold Aaron close and still love Brady. To find pieces of me that would be only his. People had to be like that. We had to be made for love unending: like parents with children, like friends, like family. There wasn’t a limit—three children loved, but not four, six friends held dear, but not seven. So I would always long for Aaron. I would hold myself there with him, in the world that had been ours. But I’d grow and stretch, I’d expand my skin, and I’d take in Brady as well.
At least, I wanted to. I was trying. The growing pains were still there, but there was hope that came with the hurt.
The clatter of dishes and conversations washed around me as I waited. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and I began to check my watch. Twenty minutes, and I began to get a sick knot of dread. Brady was sometimes late, yes, but never this much, not without calling. Not without letting me know.
My fingers shook a little as I dialed, but I tried to be calm. I did this. I imagined terrible scenarios and really it would be nothing more than Brady losing track of time while he was with his family, or the stunning lack of available taxis. Or maybe
I’d gotten the time wrong. It was going to be a mundane thing, a silly nothing, and I’d feel ridiculous for worrying. Just the other week I’d been sure Tracy had been in some terrible accident when she was half an hour late for lunch; it turned out, she’d gotten pulled into a closed-door meeting that had run over. She’d called me with huge apologies, and I’d done all that worrying for nothing. Most of the time, the worst thing wasn’t what happened. Most of the time, life was boring and safe and wonderfully dull.
Most of the time.
“Hello?”
An unfamiliar woman’s voice had answered the phone, and I recognized the tone of it. It was stark fear. It was a dread that went so deep it dulled every sense. It was an attempt to sound normal when your insides were howling at you to fall apart. I’d sounded that way a lot, when Aaron had gotten worse. When we’d been at the end.
“I… I’m sorry, this is Quinn O’Malley. I’m trying to reach Brady Banner?”
With a quiet sob of noise, the woman breathed, “Oh, God, I’d forgotten to call you. I’m so sorry, dear, I am. This is Brady’s mother. There’s… there’s been an accident. We’re at the hospital.”
Everything stopped.
People said things like that. Everything stopped. In a movie, they would show it, making the outside noise fade away, blurring everything else to white. Pins dropped and hung there, trembling into nothingness. A record scratch or a loud noise and everything literally did just stop.
That wasn’t what it was really like. In reality, it wasn’t that everything stopped. Your heart still beat; you could feel it in your ears, in your throat. Your breath moved in your lungs, ragged, painful, and the thunder of your pulse combined with it until you were certain everyone else could hear. The world around you didn’t go still; it sped up until it didn’t matter anymore. You weren’t in it. You were in the next. You were desperately clinging to the before, the wonderful normal that existed only three heartbeats ago. And trembling, sick, you would be thrust into the after. Into the world where whatever terrible thing actually existed.