Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks Series Book 1)

by Abigail Davies

  They all stand apart from Tristan who I notice hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he walked in here. I step into my paint-splattered coveralls that his kids helped to decorate and sigh as I see movement out of the corner of my eye.

  He lifts off the stool he’s sitting on and stalks toward me, still wearing that insufferable smirk. “Nice coveralls,” he says moving his eyes down to my legs to where there’s swirls of bright pink and purple paint on the knees.

  I pucker my lips, frowning at him. “Thanks.”

  He nods and gazes around the room. “Nice—”

  I don’t give him the chance to talk to me as I clear my throat and point over to the box on one of the benches. “Shall we get you some of your own and get you started?”

  He raises a brow. “Only if you promise to do those swirls on mine too,” he cajoles.

  I roll my eyes and grab him a pair, throwing them over to him before walking across the room to everyone else.

  “How’s everyone doing?” The couple that arrived last have their pant legs rolled up and are walking across a roll of paper leaving paint prints of their feet with wine glasses in their hands, laughing. “Looking good,” I comment, smiling at them.

  The two women and the man that arrived first have banded together and are standing around by the drinks table, not joining in.

  I walk over to them, determined to get them set up with an activity of their own. “Excuse me, do you need some help deciding what to do?”

  One of the women looks me up and down and says, “No, we’re good,” before turning back around and talking to the other two again.

  My eyes widen at her and I straighten my spine. “I’m sorry, but if you’re not going to paint or join in, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” I see Tristan out of the corner of my eye stop what he’s painting, watching the interaction.

  I square off my shoulders when they don’t make a move to do anything. “So, would you like me to show you where the coveralls are again?”

  The man looks between the two women with a cocky grin, and I can tell this isn’t going to end well. “Listen, lady, we’re having a conversation first. Why don’t you go and paint a rainbow or something?”

  I’m about to show him the door when a hand lands on my shoulder, moving me to the side. “What the hell did you just say?”

  I gulp at the deep, threatening tone of Tristan’s voice, my eyes swinging from him to the man who has now stepped forward.

  If I wasn’t so angry with him, I’d see it as chivalrous.

  I step in between them both, facing Tristan. “Go back to what you were doing, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

  He glares at the man over my shoulder, ignoring me. “Like the lady said, if you’re not going to join in… leave.”

  I sigh, deciding that fighting against so much testosterone would be a pointless feat and let them have their stare down.

  The man backs down to Tristan’s menacing gaze and turns toward the two women. “Let’s get out of here, it’s hippie shit anyway.”

  Hippie shit? “It’s art, asshole,” I call to him as he slams the door behind them. Tristan laughs and my head snaps from the door to him.

  He puts up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “You okay?”

  At his words, I snap back to reality and regret causing a scene in the middle of my studio. I look around the room at the couple gazing over at me before saying, “Sorry about that, that’s never happened before.”

  The man shrugs. “Well, someone needed to teach him some manners. I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

  I blow out a relieved breath that they don’t hold it against me as we all laugh along with him.

  “Now that the dick has gone, let’s get our art on,” Tristan says, stepping around me and walking back to where he was painting, leaving me standing staring into space. He picks up his brush and swirls it in some paint before looking back at me. “What do you think?”

  I walk over to him, my jaw tensing as I pick up a paintbrush and dip it into a royal blue paint before pulling my arm back and splattering it onto the paper backdrop, relieving my frustration and confusion.

  “What are you…” I turn around to face Tristan, smirking at the confused look on his face.

  “Expressing myself… obviously.”

  I feel his eyes on me for several seconds before rustling gains my attention. “I want to express myself too,” he says when I raise a brow at him.

  He takes his own art down and puts up another piece of paper, picking up his paintbrush and flicking his hand forward, splattering paint on the paper. Only he misses it slightly and I flinch as the cold splatters land on my face.

  Standing there with my eyes closed and my mouth screwed up, I wipe at my face. “You did that on purpose!”

  “I… I…” He snorts when he tries not to laugh but he can’t hold it in and his deep, baritone laughter rings loud, making me open my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he tries again, but the grin on his face and the twinkle in his eyes tells me that he’s the furthest from sorry that he could be.

  I stare him down as I wipe at my face. “You need to be more careful next time.”

  He raises his brow at me. “I thought there were no mistakes with art?”

  “No, there isn’t. That’s why I love it so much, you can’t make…” My gaze rakes up and down him. “Bad choices.”

  His expression changes from playful to something serious as he places his paintbrush down and turns to face me. “Made a lot of bad choices recently?” he asks with a raised brow.

  Clearing my throat and turning toward the piece of paper in front of me, I sweep the paintbrush back and forth. “Not recently, no.”

  His eyes burn through my skin, but I don’t turn back around to face him, instead I concentrate on the paper in front of me, releasing all of the built-up tension. My breath stutters as I feel him move closer, but I don’t move a muscle. Why is he so close?

  “I know all about bad choices,” he whispers in my ear, his hot breath skating along the skin of my neck. “Like when I wore those sneakers without socks.” He chuckles.

  My mind wanders back to the past but I quickly shake it off. “You never did listen much, I told you that you’d get blisters.”

  I step aside as he throws his head back laughing, his chest rising and falling. “I always wear socks now.” I chance a glance up at him, and when I do, I see the grin that is spreading across his face and that twinkle in his gray eyes that used to capture every ounce of my attention.

  He continues to stare at me, his eyes filling with something serious that I can’t quite decipher, and I want nothing more than to ask him what’s wrong. But I don’t, I let him have a couple of seconds before he looks back down at me, but I can’t look into those eyes, remembering the last time that I truly looked into them and saw betrayal.

  He clears his throat, tearing his gaze away from me. “You always wanted an art studio.” He looks around, turning in a full circle. “It screams you.”

  I look around with him. “Yep.”

  “Clay and Izzie love coming to art class.” I can hear the slight hitch in his voice but ignore it.

  A small smile breaks out onto my face at the mention of their names. “They’re amazing kids; Clayton has really come out of his shell these last nine weeks.”

  “He has.” He nods, turning away from me briefly. “Things haven’t been easy for him and the art class has…” He shakes his head. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear about this.”

  “I… I know he feels deeply and needs time to process things. It’s why I had a shelf put in over by the beanbags for when he needs to take a timeout,” I mumble

  He looks over at the shelf lined with books and moves his gaze back to me, an unreadable look in his eyes.

  He turns around slowly, walking over to where I pointed and crouches down in front of the shelf, reading the titles that line the spines. “Wow,” he whispers. “You really thought this through.”

  He swings
his head back up to me, his gaze capturing mine.

  “The first day he turned up, he had a book in his hands and told me it was his favorite. I soon worked out that he loved the classics, so it was a no brainer.” I shrug.

  “Excuse me? Sorry to interrupt but we really have to go.” I turn toward the couple that were painting with their feet and walk over to them, shaking both of their hands. “We’ve had such a fun night, thank you.”

  “Thank you so much for coming, it wasn’t exactly ‘fine art,’ but a little fooling around keeps you young.”

  They both chuckle but I don’t miss the subtle smoldering look they share between them. “It certainly does, we’ll definitely be back.”

  “That’s always good to hear, take care.” I watch as they leave, realizing that I’m now alone with Tristan.

  He stands up as I turn toward him and puts his hands on his hips loosely. “He does, he loves getting lost inside the world on the pages.”

  We stand staring at each other for what feels like forever. How is he acting so normal? It feels like old times, but nothing like it all at the same time. He looks down, tearing his gaze from mine as the atmosphere around us changes. We’re a lot older now; wiser, but that doesn’t mean that what he did all those years ago doesn’t hurt any less.

  “Tristan?” His head snaps up from the floor. “Why are you here?”

  “I…” His eyes search mine before he lets out a puff of air. “I have no idea.”

  I scoff, walking toward my office to get away from him, only he pulls me back by my wrist. “Get off of me.”

  “The question is,” he says, his voice deeper as his face comes closer to mine. “What are you doing back here?”

  “Where I live is none of your concern,” I grind out, my gaze wandering over his angular jaw.

  He laughs, but it’s not a humorous one. “Funny how you chose this side of the tunnel to open your studio—”

  The anger I’ve been holding back rises to the surface and I’m about to argue back when the front door to my studio pushes open, banging against the wall. I stare in shock at an angry-faced Gerry standing there, staring at Tristan’s hand that is still connected to my wrist.

  “I fucking knew it,” he spits out. “Couldn’t fucking wait, could you?”

  I feel Tristan’s hand squeeze my wrist as his body tenses before he steps in front of me. “Who the fuck are you?” he thunders.

  Gerry walks forward, a sneer lifting up his lips as he looks between the two of us and then down to where Tristan’s hand is again. “Who the fuck am I?” He takes another step toward us slamming the palm of his hand on his chest. “I’m her husband.”

  I raise a brow at him before I shrug off Tristan’s hand and walk out from behind him. “Ex. He’s my ex-husband.” I huff out a breath. “What do you want, Gerry?”

  He watches us for a beat, his gaze swinging between the two of us. “What do I want? I told you I was coming back into town. Yet here you are cozied up to lover-boy again.” He throws his hands up in the air. “You’re unbelievable.”

  Uncontrollable rage flows through me, exploding in my veins as I storm toward him, pointing in his face. “I’m unbelievable? I’m unbelievable!”

  He takes a step back, and rightly so, the anger I was feeling toward Tristan coupled with Gerry turning up unannounced and treating me as if we’re still together, has me seething. “Get. Out,” I snap seriously, turning away from him.

  He tries to grab my arm but Tristan is there in a fraction of a second, stepping in for the second time tonight. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Tristan warns, using a menacing voice that has shivers darting up my spine.

  They stare at each other, chests heaving but I don’t intend to let them fight this out. Neither of them have any business being here in my eyes; they need to go… now.

  “Get out!” I shout, making both men turn toward me. “Both of you!”

  “But I—”

  “I mean it, Gerry. What we had is over, call or turn up again and I’ll call the cops.”

  He sniggers. “For what? All I—”

  “It’s over!” I shout as I push him out of the still open door.

  He stumbles slightly but rights himself as Tristan says, “You heard her. Get out.”

  “And you!” I swivel to face him. “Unless you’re dropping off the kids or have answers as to why you were here tonight, stay away!”

  I push him out too and slam the door behind them, locking it and walking into my office.

  I stare at the front door to her studio, my eyes wide as she walks away, disappearing from sight and into a room on the left. I frown, wondering what the hell happened in there. She went from zero to sixty within point two seconds.

  I turn around slowly, my gaze flitting to the other man who is standing on the path with me.

  Narrowing my eyes, I take note of his disheveled blond hair and the clothes that he’s wearing; clothes that clearly don’t fit him—at least not in the way that mine do. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t have them tailor-made.

  A smirk pulls at the corner of my lips at that thought.

  He’s her ex-husband. She was married but the ex part means that he’s no longer in the picture. Maybe that’s why she moved back home?

  My back straightens and I stand to my full height as I stare at him for a beat, waiting for him to walk down the path first. There’s no way that I’ll be moving until he does.

  We both might be her past, but he has no way to come back from a divorce.

  “She’ll never love you again,” he grinds out, his fists clenching beside him.

  I raise a brow, taunting him. “That right, asshole?”

  He falters before he pushes his shoulders back, standing up to his full height which matches mine. “You fucking left her a broken mess, you don’t deserve to be here!”

  My stomach bottoms out at his words. He’s right, I know he’s right, but that doesn’t stop the overwhelming need I have right now to punch him in the face. He got her for longer than I did.

  I didn’t get to see her walk down the aisle toward me the way I’d always imagined, I didn’t get to stand by her side as she opened her dream studio. I. Wasn’t. There. I know that and it fucking kills me, but him saying that has no bearing on what does or doesn’t happen from here on out.

  The fact is that I haven’t got a clue how I feel about her being back. I’m lost; lost in the deep blue ocean with no shore in sight.

  I shrug, acting indifferent when really his words bat around my brain like a baseball in a batting cage. “I may have left her a broken mess,” I start, taking a step toward him. “But both you and I know that she’s done with you.”

  His face turns a nasty shade of red as he takes two steps toward me. “You’ll say anything to make yourself feel better, huh? I was there for her when you weren’t.”

  I close the distance, taking one more step and coming nose to nose with the fucker who got to hold her every night. “You may have been there then, asshole.” I point to my chest. “But I’m here now.”

  He points at the door. “Are you? ’Cause from where I’m standing, you’re as much on the other side of that door as I am.”

  I don’t move my gaze from his, determined not to lose this unsaid staring match that we’re in. “I may be now… but I’ll be back here tomorrow, and then the Saturday after… and the one after that… unlike you.”

  His nostrils flare, his face becoming redder as he shifts his stance slightly, letting the light above us shine over him. I don’t see his fist until it’s centimeters from my face, and by then it’s too late. His knuckles connect with the sensitive skin underneath my eye, making me wince as the pain explodes across my face.

  I don’t let it show though, I grit my teeth, shaking my head before biting out, “I’ll let you have that one, but hit me again and you can bet your ass that I’ll have you thrown in jail.” I narrow my eyes, trying my best to ignore the throbbing sensation that is now working it
s way over my eye.

  He opens his mouth to say something as he unclenches and clenches his hand but I don’t give him a chance to speak. “You better get off this fucking property and never come back.” I pause a beat before saying, “And if I see you here again, I’ll make sure you’ll regret it. Leave Harmony the fuck alone.”

  I keep my gaze connected to his, showing him how much I mean it. Not only will I destroy his life personally, but I’ll make it my mission to obliterate him professionally.

  He starts to walk backward, pointing at me. “You’re welcome to her, I only came here to apologize, but she doesn’t deserve even that. I hope you’re both very fucking happy together.” He turns his back on me before throwing, “Or not,” over his shoulder.

  My nostrils flare as I watch him walk away, my hands clenching into fists at my side, begging me to go after him and hit him—harder than he hit me.

  Once I hear the sound of a car starting and tires squealing, I know that he’s gone. I chance a look into the studio; the need to go back in there and talk to her overwhelming me. My feet take a step in the direction of the door, but then that little voice in the back of my mind telling me that he’s right, stops me in my tracks. I did leave her that day, I had a damn good reason, but I still left her. And he found her and pieced her back together again.

  Maybe I should leave the past in the past?

  Professor Green, Mr. Proz—Little secrets

  Adele—When We Were Young

  I place my coffee cup in the sink after rinsing it out, turning and leaning against the counter as I watch Clay and Izzie where they sit at the table, eating their breakfast.

  My cell buzzing in my pocket grabs my attention and I pull it out to see a message from Nate.

  NATE: Lunch date? ;)

  I shake my head, ignoring the message and placing my cell down onto the counter. I haven’t seen Nate since he left my place after the cookout—a cookout that was set up by him and my mother so that they could meddle in my life. Not only do I feel betrayed by that, but the fact that he knew Harmony was in town and decided to omit telling me has him firmly at the top of my shit list.