Page 68 of Pictures in Blue
Once I pass the camping spots, I can feel the familiar sensation of dread. It’s why I never come here, but something is different about tonight. Something is telling me to come here and I can’t ignore it. The last time I was here, there were crowds of people gathered under a tent, attempting to stay dry from the rain. I didn’t care. I stood off to the side, letting the rain droplets soak into the back of the suit I knew I’d never wear again. I’d made sure of it by burning it that night in my fireplace.
I’ve never been one to visit graves. I never saw a point to it. What is buried there is no more than something that held a person’s soul while they were alive. The idea of standing on a grave, staring at a headstone and talking to no one was not a concept I’ve ever understood. But here I am, going to Sarah’s headstone, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here. Trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing in general.
I maneuver my way through the other headstones, careful not to step on any graves and I think about kids being superstitious enough to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk. I may not get the idea of talking to a stone, but it doesn’t feel right to casually stroll through the cemetery, stepping on the graves as I go.
Finally, I come to the spot I haven’t seen in three years and blink back tears. The headstone isn’t as bright and shiny as that day. It’s worn with time and weather, reminding me a bit of myself. I haven’t been very bright since Sarah died either and the years have taken their toll. I take a deep breath of the warm summer air and start talking.
“I met a girl,” I say, leaving all sense of trepidation behind me and jumping in before I can talk myself out of it. “A woman,” I correct and ignore the creeping feeling of embarrassment. I almost wish the stone would talk back, but then I’d have even bigger problems than the warring emotions I have felt in my chest since I saw Avery in the coffee shop. “Avery. She’s… well, she’s Avery. You’d like her though. She gives me a lot of shit like you used to. She actually reminds me of you.”
I tell her about the last few days and the way my skin tingles, goosebumps flaring at the surface, when Avery glares at me, trying to make me cave. I wanted to give in and having her in my house makes it difficult not to.
Taking a few deep breaths, I exhale the negativity coursing through me and focus on the woman sleeping in my home. Gently, I place a hand on top of the cold stone and I feel my chest constrict at first then loosen, the pressure constantly there finally letting up on its own for the first time in three years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AVERY
True to my word, I spend the next day out on the back porch with a never ending supply of coffee, a romance I found buried between the middle grade fiction, and a blanket draped over my legs. Every few chapters, I glance up to stare at the trees and the mountains towering behind them. I could get used to this view. Pull this blanket over my head, book in hand and hibernate for the winter, only coming out for food or coffee. A dream that will be shattered in two short weeks, but I push that thought away as soon as it comes. I plan to relish in my dreams a little while longer.
I have no idea where Hudson went in the middle of the night, but I could tell by his footsteps that he was trying not to wake me. He paused just outside my door for a few seconds before continuing downstairs and out the front door. I didn’t ask him about it this morning when he came downstairs and poured himself some coffee as I continued scrambling eggs for breakfast, but I still wondered where he suddenly had to go at 2 a.m.
After I scarfed down my eggs, I retreated to my small sanctuary outside on the porch. I’ve only gone inside when Hudson is out of the house. I assume he is in the barn working for the day, so I’m taking the opportunity for time alone where I have to do absolutely nothing. No work, no articles to write, no pressure. Nothing but the scenes from my book playing in my head and the steam from the fresh coffee I made tickling my nose.
I count the hours by each cup of coffee I grab and by the time I get to the third-act breakup in the book, I take a break and look up at the mid-afternoon sky. Birds fly back and forth as the clouds attempt to chase them. A slight breeze bends the field of wildflowers in synchronization and I close my eyes against it, committing this feeling to memory. I grab my camera from the table next to me and take a photo. That one is going in a frame. I return the camera to its spot and grab my mug of coffee, gently curling my fingers around it before taking a sip.
The dogs scatter at my feet, lifting their heads up and turning them in succession toward the windows. I follow their heads and jerk back when I see a figure standing there. Coffee sloshes over my hand, leaving bright red spots behind. Hudson disappears from the door, returning shortly after with a lukewarm rag. He hesitates before bending down and reaching for my hands. Calloused palms against soft skin. The warmth from the rag bleeds into my skin as he gently cleans up the coffee from my hands, beauty taking care of the beast.
“Hey,” his voice is low, soft. Different from any voice he has used with me before. I look over to him and look into his eyes, the air now charged.
“Hey,” I repeat, matching his tone, too afraid to disrupt the moment, to stop whatever is happening right now.
I break first, panicking at the racing heart in my chest and what it means. I don’t want to know what it means.
I turn my head back to my book and take a sip from my coffee, not caring that it is way too hot to drink and burning my mouth. I flinch and hope he doesn’t notice, but automatically have a feeling he does. He’s too observant for his own good.
“Need some ice in there?” He says, a laugh trapped in his throat.
“No,” I reply, stubbornly, tongue stinging from the heat. “What did you need?”
“Right. I am going to make dinner and wondered if you had a preference between steak or pasta?”
“Depends on who’s cooking. Are you getting the food from Frank’s?”
He laughs. “Pasta from Frank’s is a very bad decision. Anything outside the realm of red meat is a big risk.”
“Okay, then steaks.”
“I’m not going to Frank’s. I’m cooking.”
“You’re going to cook?” I ask. This feels too much like we are creeping into relationship territory. “For me?”
He just shrugs, “If you’ll let me.”
I turn back to my book, determined to finish it and mutter, “Sure, why not.” But only because I’m hungry. Nothing else.
Without another word he comes onto the porch and starts setting up the grill, almost like he’s equally determined to not let me finish. If he keeps cleaning the grill the way he is, he’s going to win this one. He pulls his hair up into a messy bun and I completely give up hope of returning to the happy ending in my book.
I don’t really consider my actions before I close my book, hoping to remember the page I was on, and stand. I don’t recall starting to move toward him, but I go to where Hudson is dropping charcoal into the grill, stacking them neatly.
