Page 20 of Since the Day We Left

“I suppose I did,” Arthur said, adding a streak of yellow where the sun hit the water. “Looks more alive now.”

She nodded, then glanced up to find Miles watching them. Their eyes met across the room, and he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. Her stomach dipped.

Of course. Just my luck.

She resisted the urge to check if her bun had fallen apart like it always did by mid-afternoon. The thrifted T-shirt she’d thrown on this morning now felt too casual—especially with the coffee stain she really hoped he hadn’t noticed.

I should’ve put on mascara.

Wendi turned back to Arthur. “You really have been doing this for a long time. This looks amazing.”

“Still got it in me. At least most of it.”

As Arthur painted, Max settled beside his chair, resting on his shoe.

“Your water’s looking murky,” she said, reaching for his cup. “Let me refresh that for you.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” he said without looking up.

With Arthur settled with clean water, she made her way to the kitchenette, keeping an eye on him from across the room. “Coffee?” she asked Miles.

He glanced up from his phone. “Yeah, thanks.”

She poured two mugs, adding a splash of cream to hers. When she passed him his, their fingers brushed—for a second.

Did he notice that? Or was it just me?

“He’s incredible,” she said. “Most people overthink it.”

“Funny thing is, he never had any formal training. He worked at a plant—random shifts, long hours.” He took a sip. “But any free time he had, he was painting. Studying. Figuring it out on his own.”

“That’s even more impressive,” she said, leaning against the counter. “You can’t teach that kind of instinct. Some people take classes for years and never get where he is.”

Miles stood as he looked toward his dad, then back at her. “Yeah, he’s gifted for sure.”

“What about you? Do you paint?”

He huffed a laugh. “Now that’s funny.”

“No creative side at all?”

“Nah, sports were more my thing—football, baseball, wrestling, track. Tried a little of everything.”

“Ah, so you were a jock,” she said, giving his arm a light slap. The moment her hand met solid muscle, something electric and entirely inconvenient ricocheted up her arm. “I mean, obviously, right? You’ve got the build for it.”

Miles chuckled. “Not like I use to. But years of sports, and then firefighting helped. Keeps you in decent shape.”

Decent?

“Firefighter?” She straightened. “Really?”

Something crossed his face—something she couldn’t quite name. But somehow, all at once, it said everything and nothing. “Used to be.”

The conversation stalled.

“Had a panic attack. Froze up. My partner had to pull me out.”

“I’m so sorry.”

---