Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks Series Book 1)

by Abigail Davies

  HARMONY: 8 on Saturday, don't be late.

  TRISTAN: It’s a date.

  HARMONY: It's not a date.

  Damn. Have I put my foot in it? I insinuated that I wanted a date.

  I start to panic as I hear a door open and close down the hallway. Have I been messaging her for so long that Clay is already finished?

  TRISTAN: It’s a non-date-date. I’ve got to go, Clay is coming out of his appointment.

  My thumb hovers over the smiling face emoji but I shake my head. Emojis are so not my thing. I click send and stand up as I push my cell into my pocket, hearing both of their footsteps coming closer. I don’t know what to expect when Clay rounds the corner, but it’s certainly not the grinning face that greets me.

  “Clay? How did it go?”

  “Good!” He comes running over to me, wrapping his arms around me and I lift my head to Leonie.

  “I’ll see you both next week. Same time?”

  “Ye—Yeah,” I stammer, confused by Clay’s reaction. I was sure that he’d come out feeling worse than he did when he went in.

  Maybe this is a good thing after all?

  She graces us with one last smile before walking away and I look down at Clay. “So, how did it go?” I ask, taking his hand and walking him out of here.

  “It was good, I feel happier.”

  “That’s amazing, Clay!”

  We both grin at each other as we walk through the doors and toward the car where Edward is sitting reading a newspaper.

  “I can’t wait to come back next week!” He grins and I can’t help but feel like I finally did something right as a parent.

  To say I was surprised to get a message from Tristan inviting me to an art show is an understatement. Even after our strange exchange when I dropped Izzie off, I still felt like he would hate me for causing Clay to have a meltdown, but I guess he doesn’t blame me. I need to take a leaf out of his book because I still feel awful for what I caused.

  Nevertheless, my nerves have been shot ever since and I haven’t been able to concentrate on everyday things. I’m excited that it’s Oliver Hunt’s work that we’ll be going to see because he’s an incredible artist—no, incredible isn’t a big enough word for the art that he creates—he’s phenomenal

  I’ve been wanting to see one of his shows for a while now, so much so that I accepted Tristan’s offer on the spot without thinking of the consequences. I made it clear that this wasn’t a date, so why am I now standing in front of my closet, freaking out about what to wear?

  I leaf through all of my clothes, finally deciding on a plain black bandage dress that falls just above my knees and I curl my auburn hair loosely so it hangs over my shoulders. The makeup I’ve applied is minimal but it draws attention to my chartreuse eyes, making them the focal point.

  I step back and admire myself in the mirror; I’m not used to seeing myself in plain clothes, it seems odd. I shrug at my reflection before grabbing a clutch purse and walking downstairs, ignoring the smirk on Mom’s face as I walk into the kitchen.

  “Fancy,” she comments, appraising my outfit.

  “It’s an art show. You have to dress up.”

  “This doesn’t feel like you though.” I shrug, well aware that this isn’t what I would normally wear. “You should wear that cream one with the teal accessories you got a few weeks back.”

  “I’m not changing, Mom.” I roll my eyes and pour myself a glass of wine.

  “Just saying.” She smirks at me again and I sigh.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

  “No, come on. Say what you’re dying to say.”

  “Only if you’ll go and get changed.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Fine.” She turns around and stirs a pot on the stove.

  I wait for her to impart her latest wisdom on me, only she doesn’t so I ask, “Mom?”

  “Mmhmm?”

  “Don’t give me ‘mmhmm,’ what were you going to say?”

  She turns back around and crosses her arms over her chest as her gaze rakes over my outfit again. “Are you going to change?”

  I huff and turn, walking out of the kitchen. “Twenty-nine years old and I feel like a teenager all over again.”

  Her chuckles die down as I reach the top of the stairs and enter my room, pulling the cream dress I haven’t yet worn from its hanger. I unzip the black dress at the side and pull it off, careful not to muss up my hair. I eye the cream dress, pulling it on along with a teal droplet necklace and matching cuff bracelet.

  I walk over to the mirror and stand in front of it—again—and smile. It’s an off the shoulder lace dress that stops above my knees, and it matches perfectly with the teal accessories and the teal pointed heels I slip my feet into.

  The insufferable smirk that’s still on her face as I re-enter the kitchen makes me smile. Mom was right—as usual. I feel more like me wearing a spot of color.

  “Don’t say—”

  “I told you so.” The smirk drops from her face and she motions to the dining table. We both sit down and she hands me a glass of wine. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” If it was anyone else but my mom telling me that, I would’ve blushed, but she has to say it; she’s my mom.

  “Can you promise me one thing?” I don’t answer her, not wanting to promise something ahead of hearing what she has to say. “Don’t get attached.”

  “It’s not a date.”

  “So you’ve said a hundred times, but you’re still going out with someone you have an intense history with.” She pauses, her eyes flitting between mine. “And not to mention that this someone is extremely handsome.” She waggles her brows up and down and I roll my eyes, trying not to chuckle. “You’re newly divorced and he has kids, there has to be a mom somewhere. You have to tread lightly.”

  I haven’t told Mom what I know: how Natalia is their mom and that she’s no longer here to see them grow up. My eyelids flutter shut as her face flashes into my head.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, hon. But what I say is the truth.”

  “It’s not that.” I open my eyes, taking a deep breath, ready to tell her. “He was married to Izzie and Clayton’s mom, but… she passed away.”

  Her hand flies to her chest. “Oh, poor dears.”

  I nod as tears prick my eyes. “It was Natalia.”

  Mom knew Natalia, she was the only friend I ever brought back to my house; I didn’t even bring Tristan here. Natalia was a private person; I knew she came from money like Tristan and Nate, but she never flaunted it or went into detail about anything. She was ordinary—like me. That’s why we got on like a house on fire, and I guess it’s why it still hurts to think that she married him after knowing how much I loved him.

  “Nat?”

  “Yeah.” I nod solemnly as a stray tear rolls down her face, but I will myself not to cry and ruin my makeup. “This isn’t teenage stuff anymore, this is real life. We’ve both suffered so much and it feels nice to have a friendship where there’s no expectations.”

  “I know what you’re saying, but… still tread carefully. The last thing I want is for you to end up back there again.” I cringe at what she’s implying. “It’s not just the both of you involved in this friendship. Things have changed and he has two little people he needs to think about.”

  “I would never jeopardize the kids’ emotional state.”

  She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I know that, sweetheart. All I’m saying is if anything comes from this, you need to be all in, or nothing at all. You can’t swarm into their lives all of a sudden and be there, then suddenly not be there when things go to shot.”

  “I have no intention of any of that happening. I’m not trying to replace Natalia, I—”

  “Nobody said you were, but there’s a reason that he’s showing interest in you again.” She pauses before adding, “Take it slow.”

  As if on cue, there’s a knock at the door, but the
conversation has thrown me off kilter and I’m not ready to see him yet. I panic, motioning for my mom to go and answer the door.

  She rolls her eyes but stands up and walks out of the room, answering the door anyway.

  “Hi, Tilly. I’m here for Harmony.” I hear them both chuckle. “I feel like a teenager.”

  “I’d invite you in but you’re already pushing it for time.” There’s a beat of silence before she calls, “Harmony?”

  I take a deep breath and paste a smile on my face, reminding myself that this isn’t a date before walking out of the kitchen.

  My chest thumps and I have to mentally force myself to not stand here with my mouth hanging open at the sight of him in navy blue dress pants and a matching suit jacket. The bright white shirt he’s wearing has the collar open and I can see the soft skin of his neck. I swallow, raking my gaze down his body, taking him all in.

  My eyes flick up to his sandy-blond hair that is perfectly styled and then down to his face, his gray eyes sparkling before noticing that his gaze is also running over my body appreciatively; much the same as I did with him.

  “Tristan.” My voice is wobbly from the nerves creeping through me.

  Mom grins at me before walking away. “Have a great night, kids. Don’t have her back too late.”

  Tristan chuckles before taking my hand and lightly brushing his lips over the back of my knuckles. “You look stunning,” he whispers, bringing his gaze back up to meet mine.

  A warmth creeps up my neck and he must see me blushing because a smirk spreads across his lips. “Thank you, although you could’ve dressed up. I have to be seen in public with you, you know,” I say with a playful wink.

  He shakes his head and throws his head back in a laugh, the deep rumbling surrounding us. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face at seeing him so open and carefree. He gives my hand a small squeeze before he lets go. I try to tell myself that I don’t miss the feeling of his hand on mine, but I know that I’m lying.

  “After you,” he says, waving his arm in front of him.

  I step out of the house and close the door behind me, walking ahead of him to the familiar car. He opens the door for me and I give him a small smile before climbing into the seat and grinning at the man in the driver’s seat.

  “Hi, Ed.” He nods his head slightly before Tristan slides in the other side next to me.

  We pull out onto the road and Mom’s words of wisdom run through my head. This isn’t a date; act normal.

  “So… Clayton seemed a lot happier at the session this morning.”

  “That’s really good to hear,” he replies, but when I turn my face toward his, I can see the worry still shining in his eyes. “He’s doing better… I think.”

  “You were right to take him to the counselor. I think all he needed was to talk to someone that wasn’t so involved.” He gives me a small smile before facing forward and I look down at my hands when nothing else is said.

  My gaze flits to the rearview mirror and I see Ed peering back at me, but he looks away quickly. I feel like the teenagers we once were, being driven around by him at our beck and call.

  When I first met Tristan all those years ago, I couldn’t understand why he had a driver. He had a car of his own, so to me there was no need to be driven around. It wasn’t until I met Ed that I realized he wasn’t just his driver, he was his role model—the person he looked up to the most.

  My eyes scan the inside of the car as my fingers trail along the black stitching on the leather seats. Tristan has upgraded since I was last in the back of a car with him —then again, it has been ten years.

  I blow out a breath as we drive through the city, trying to rid myself of all the warring thoughts rolling through my head again. Sitting this close to him has my whole body tensing but relaxing in a way that hasn’t happened since I was last in his arms. Even my own body is confused and betraying me.

  Ed pulls into the lot and I look out of the window, seeing the pop-up gallery that is taking place in what looks like an abandoned warehouse.

  Only this is more than a warehouse.

  The steel structure is covered in glass that in turn is covered with splatters of paint. The lights that are attached to the top of the glass shine off the surface, illuminating the different colors and making different shapes with the paint.

  They’re not random splatters—the longer I stare at them, the more formation I see, and I gasp. That’s amazing.

  My eyes widen the more shapes and figures I make out and then the lights change color and so does the paint. They flash three times quickly and then flash to a different beat.

  This is why he’s an amazing artist and is where he is today—because of things like this. Not everyone could think this up and pull it off.

  “Harm?” I startle and look up at the sound of Tristan’s voice so close to me. I didn’t even notice him getting out of the car, too entranced with the building. “Are you ready to go inside?” he asks, extending his hand out to me.

  “Sure.” I climb out of the car, with the help of Tristan, and my eyes scan the building again. “Wow. He sure knows how to make an impression.”

  Tristan turns around and looks at the building, his brows flying up his forehead. “Wow is right.”

  He mutters something to Ed as I stare at the paint patterns, mesmerized, and then he places his arm out for me to hold onto and guides me over to the entrance.

  My heels click against the concrete ground and I look up, seeing that the inside is as mesmerizing as the outside. The steel beams that are around the outside structure are inside too, only they’re scattered around, splattered with different colored paint. I make out neon greens mixed with purples and oranges, creating shapes and making the beams look almost texturized. The lights in here don’t flash like they did outside, instead they slowly switch color, changing the way each individual beam looks.

  My eyes scan all of the people in here and I frown. There can’t be more than fifty people in this large space. My eyes widen; this must be an exclusive event.

  My gaze travels further to the right and my breaths stutter in my chest when I see the first painting hanging from the steel beams that run across the top of the structure. I immediately make a beeline for it, forgetting about Tristan who is standing next to me. I can’t hold in my excitement any longer.

  I stop in front of the painting: a woman’s face is made out of shapes and she’s staring off into the distance. Like on the beams, there’s lights trained on the canvas, changing intermittently and making it look like her facial expression is changing from sad and filled with longing, to happy.

  I finally tear my gaze away from the painting and look to my right, spotting at least another five pictures hanging off the beam on this side of the warehouse. Turning around, I search further into the space. There’s so many more.

  I do a little dance inside, giddy at the thought of seeing all of the beautiful art that he’s created.

  I feel Tristan come up behind me and I turn when he says, “I’ll go and get us some drinks,” smiling when he sees the excitement on my face. “Wine?” I nod absentmindedly as I look around us and I hear him chuckling over the music.

  My eyes wander over to where Harmony is standing, unable to keep them from her for any longer than a couple of minutes.

  When I went to pick her up and I saw what she was wearing, I was speechless. She captivates me like no one else ever has, even when she’s only wearing her paint-splattered coveralls; she’s still just as beautiful as when she’s wearing a gorgeous dress.

  She’s as stunning as she was ten years ago—maybe even more so now. Her eyes shine with the same excitement as they did back then, but they also mirror something else: sadness and life experience.

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m digging up the past by trying to spend time with her and messaging her. Maybe it’s better if we didn’t do this? Maybe we should go our separate ways like we did all those years ago?

  But when her eyes meet
mine from across the room as I wait for our drinks to be poured, I know that I could never walk away from her a second time.

  Doing it the first time gutted me; I don’t even want to comprehend what would happen if she wasn’t in my life right now. Not only that, but it isn’t just about me; both of the kids have grown attached to her too.

  I take the glass of wine and whiskey from the man dressed all in black behind the makeshift bar—another piece of metal covered in paint splatters—and walk through the middle of the warehouse. I don’t bother to look at the art hanging from the metal beams overhead because the only piece of art that is calling to me in this room is Harmony.

  And that’s exactly what she is: a beautiful, stunning, colorful piece of art. I can see her beaming from here as she studies another one of the paintings, her head tilting from side to side as the lights change and in turn, the painting too.

  “Here,” I say, clearing my throat and handing her the glass of wine.

  She turns to me after a couple of seconds, her lips pulled up into the widest grin I think I’ve ever seen. Her eyes twinkle as the light changes color again and she reaches out, taking her wine glass from me and bringing it to her lips as she turns back to the painting after she thanks me.

  I watch as the glass comes to her lips, swallowing as my eyes track her tongue coming out to lick the remainder of the wine from them. I’ve never been so fascinated in my entire life.

  “So,” I say, stepping closer and turning to face the painting. “What is it?”

  “It’s perspective,” she says simply, as if it explains everything. At the confused look on my face, she starts to explain herself. “When the lights seem far away, she’s staring out at something in the distance with anguish on her face. When they change and seem like they’re closer, her face changes, hiding her emotion and masking it with a happy smile.” She points to the painting as the lights change again. “See.”

  I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes, trying to see what she sees. Stepping closer, I watch it intently. “I see it,” I tell her, my voice a little too loud. The light changes and the happy woman turns into a sad woman. There’s something about it that hits me in the chest and I swallow before turning to face her.