My hand flies up to my heart and my elbow collides painfully with the side of the fridge.
“Shit. You scared me.”
My mother waltzes past me to the espresso machine, acting as if being awake first thing on a Thursday is some normal occurrence for her. “Language, Natalie,” she chastises.
I rub at my elbow as I lean back against the shiny stainless steel, staring at the back of her matching pajama set. “Is Dad coming back?”
He left on Monday. If he’s already returning to Alleghany, it would be the shortest trip he’s taken in years.
“No. He’s not sure when he’ll be back.”
I don’t suppress the snort. Sounds about right. “Then why are you up?” I ask.
Aside from the few days when my dad was just home, my mother hasn’t been up before eleven a.m. all summer. “I don’t appreciate the tone, Natalie.” She tucks a piece of blonde hair behind one ear.
I scoff and shove away from the fridge, opening the door and pulling out one of the pre-made smoothies I usually have for breakfast. “Whatever. I’ll be home late.”
“Not too late.”
“Advice you should take yourself,” I mumble as I leave the kitchen.
If my mother hears me, she doesn’t respond. I pull out of the garage and drive down the street, pausing extra long at the stop sign to grab my phone out of my bag and plug it in to charge. It’s hiding beneath the ball of gray fabric that’s been stuffed in there since Sunday.
I keep driving, my thoughts filled withhim. I know I’ll forever associate the taste of tequila with him. A permanent reminder the boy who doesn’t let loose slackened a little.
For me. Again. I feel his kiss on my lips and his warm body next to mine like phantom touches.
It never should have happened. I wish I could blame it on the thrill of the forbidden. But we talked for hours after having sex again. I can separate the two—the Glenmont quarterback and everything else that makes up Liam Stevens. But I shouldn’t. Doing so makes it too easy to admit that I like the guy. Jake and I had a fling all spring, and I barely thought of him when we weren’t together.
Not an issue with Liam, that’s for damn sure.
I park on the main street downtown, grab my smoothie, and head for the double doors that lead into the community center. Air conditioning laced with the scent of lemon cleaner and fresh flowers greets me.
Rachel, the receptionist, shoots me a smile before continuing her conversation with the middle-aged woman and the little girl standing at the front desk. It sounds like they’re signing up for dance classes.
I head upstairs, exchanging pleasantries with the staff members I recognize before entering the art room. It’s a wide, open space with a far wall almost exclusively made of windows. Easels and stools are neatly spaced through the room. Art in a myriad of mediums, colors, styles, and techniques lines the walls.
I set up today’s assignment—a classic bowl of fruit—on the table in the center of the room reserved for that exact purpose. Then, I head into the supply closet to gather up supplies.
This is where I store most of my art. Everything displayed in the main room was done by others who have taken classes.
I’m not sure why I feel the compulsion to hide it away. The best way I can describe it is exactly what I told Liam—it’s something I do for me. Sharing something special to you with others invites commentary on it. Positive or negative, it makes it lessyours.
“Hey, Natalie,” Simone, the community center’s director, breezes into the room.
“Hi, Simone,” I reply, starting to distribute clean sheets of paper at each easel.
“New session today. More Sunny Dale residents. They’re really looking forward to it,” Simone tells me. “You’re the talk of the nursing home, apparently.”
“I enjoy teaching them,” I say, honestly.
I doubt many people my age spend much time around anyone over sixty-five they’re not related to. But I enjoy it. The group is entertaining and working here makes me feel like I’m doing something useful with my time. I’ll do whatever Simone asks me to.
“Well, keep up the great work. We’re busy enough, I might add a couple more classes to the schedule, if you’re all right with that?”
“Sure. Just send me the times.”
“Will do. See you later, Natalie.”