The strokes were angry, hard, and it showed on the splotches and streaks left on the painting. The acrylic scent assaulted her nostrils in a biting yet soothingly familiar way. The image turned into a deep blue circle, uneven and bold. The longer she mindlessly worked at it, the surer her hand became, the calmer the brushstrokes, and when her hand finally fell to her lap, she stared at the door she’d created. Sara tilted her head as she examined it, wondering why, out of everything she could have made, that was what her mind had told her hand to produce.
The phone rang, startling her, and the wet paintbrush fell from her hand, making a picture of its own on the wood floor. She let out a curse, hurrying to get up without knocking anything else over, and moved for the kitchen. The shrill sound of the phone ringing caused Sara to wince as she reached for the phone. “Hello?”
“Sara? Hey. It’s Spencer. How ya been?” The nervous undertone in his voice was not lost on her.
“I’m painting.”
“Really? That’s great. I’m really glad. Mason must be helping—“
“I’m painting because he ordered me to,” she interrupted, swiping hair out of her eyes with her forearm.
“Oh.” Something like a snicker came over the line. “Sorry. At least you’re painting. You could have always said no.”
“I did. It didn’t work.”
“Mason can be intimidating, but everything he does he does with good intentions. Honestly. I wouldn’t have sent him your way if I didn’t believe that.”
Sara leaned against the fridge, rubbing her paint-covered fingers together. “Yeah.”
“Is it helping?” he asked after a pause.
“Maybe.” She didn’t know. Surprisingly, painting had ended up being therapeutic for her, though the start had been rocky.
“I hope it is.” When Sara didn’t respond, he continued, “So, uh, I was wondering…Gracie and I, we’re seeing each other again and we’re kind of having a party and I thought maybe you would want to come? I mean, Mason will be there…Lincoln, some other people. Not really a party. Well, kind of. It’s more of a get-together. For my birthday. Anyway, I thought you might want to come.”
Sara felt awful that the first thing she felt was envy and bitterness toward Spencer and Gracie for being able to rekindle their relationship. It wasn’t their fault she couldn’t be with the only person she wanted to be with; it was hers. Her throat closed and she couldn’t utter a word.
“I mean, if it’s too soon…I just thought maybe you’d like to get out, socialize, try to have some fun.”
“Having fun isn’t exactly on my to-do list,” Sara said softly, the phone pressed hard against her ear.
“Sara…come on,” he gently coaxed. “Please? If you can’t deal, then someone will take you home. Just try. Please.”
“Okay,” she whispered. As soon as the word left her, her stomach rebelled.
“Awesome. I’ll tell Lincoln to pick you up on his way over. It’s this Friday at seven. See you soon.”
The hand that held the phone went limp at her side. Sara’s brow furrowed at the thought of Lincoln picking her up. She knew it meant nothing. She knew it wasn’t a date in any way. It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t being unfaithful. It wasn’t a betrayal. No one could replace him, not even his brother. No one ever would. She knew all of that. So why did she feel so weird, so awkward, about it?
She remembered the spilt paint and grabbed a dishcloth off the side of the sink, wetting it with warm water. The rag fell from her hand with a heavy splat when she entered the art room and looked down. It was ragged and bent, but the blue paint was unmistakably in the form of a ‘C’. She stumbled back, feeling behind her blindly for something to brace herself against before she fell.
Sara landed against the wall, shaking and nauseous. She blinked at it, but it didn’t disappear and it didn’t transform into a normal splotch of paint. A whimper left her as she dropped to her knees beside it, tracing it with a trembling finger. She hung her head, tears burning her eyes, and quickly cleaned it up, feeling as though she was wiping a part of him away from her soul, hating every swipe of the wet cloth against the paint.
7
She was nervous. She had no reason to be nervous. Sara chewed on her thumbnail as she paced the living room floor. There was no one to impress, no one she had to look good for, and even if there had been, he’d been the only one she’d ever wanted to impress and he’d liked the way she’d looked no matter what she’d worn or how she’d looked.
It was the thought of trying to pretend to be normal. They would expect things out of her. Like conversation. And smiles. They would expect her to laugh and joke and be the old Sara. Only she couldn’t be the old Sara because that person was gone. That Sara wasn’t ever coming back. She knew that as surely as she’d known she was going to be a painter the first time she’d picked up a paintbrush at the age of four.
She’d unseeingly grabbed a pair of jeans and a top out of the dresser and now wore a hot pink buttoned-down shirt with a black buttoned vest over it and a pair of dark blue jeans. Sara had a pair of knee-high black boots on. She’d applied perfume and just as quickly wiped it off. Sara had tried to hide the paleness of her face and the darkness from under her eyes with makeup, but it had been a useless attempt. Her hair needed a decent cut and not knowing what to do with it, she’d twisted it into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.
The flash of headlights in the window alerted her to Lincoln’s arrival. Sara grabbed her purse, made sure all the lights were off, and locked the door behind her. The temperature hovered somewhere between the forties and fifties and the scent of rain was in the air. Most of the snow had melted from less than a week ago. Wisconsin could never make up its mind which way it wanted to go as far as the weather went.
Sick feeling and jittery, Sara walked down the sidewalk with the click click of her boots in tempo with her heartbeat. Every step taken toward Lincoln was a step Sara fought an intense urge to turn around, race back into the house, and stay there. Indefinitely. Be normal, Sara. For once, for tonight, just try to be normal.
She paused near the curb, gathering her strength. The sound of a door opening and closing made her flinch, and there Lincoln was, striding toward her, a tall shadow with no features under the glow of a streetlamp. He didn’t say anything, stopping before her, watching her in the dark.
“Hi,” she squeaked, clearing her throat.
He nodded, silently opening the door for her. Sara frowned, wondering at his quietness. She moved past him to get into the truck, his scent going with her. It had a hint of citrus to it. Sara sat down and looked ahead as the door shut.
As soon as he entered his side of the truck, she went at him. “What’s your problem?”
Lincoln flipped a light on in the truck. Sara blinked, but it wasn’t from the sudden light; it was from Lincoln’s appearance. His hair was shorter, making his flinty eyes sharper and more noticeable. He wore a gray sweater the same shade as his eyes and faded black jeans. His cologne or body wash wafted through the small enclosed space. Sara quickly averted her face, her pulse too fast. What was wrong with her?
“I wanted to tell you how nice you look,” he said slowly.
Sara’s head jerked up as her eyes went to his face, her brows lowering.
“Only I didn’t want to upset you. Seems like everything I do or say comes out wrong lately, so I decided to keep quiet. But you do, Sara. You look really nice.” He faced forward, turning off the light, blanketing them in black, and putting the truck in drive.
The silence was tense between them and it took a few attempts to say it, but she eventually got out a soft, “Thank you.”
He gave an almost unnoticeable nod of his head, messing with the radio as he drove. Lincoln found a hard rock station and drums and guitar took over the quiet. It took less than five minutes to get to Spencer’s house located at the edge of town. Sara sat there, staring at the red two-story house, inhaling and exhaling deeply.