Page 52 of Lucy Loves Him Not
“I don’t know.” I brushed a piece of hair behind my ear. “Most of what I do is about helping my students, helping my family, helping my mom. Heck, my summer was going to be dedicated tohelpingmy grandmother’s legacy. It feels like…anything worth doing is supposed to have a point, right?”
“There is so much more to you than what a good helper you are. Take it from me. You’re more of a pain in my butt than a help,” he said, a corner of his mouth hinting at a laugh.
“It feels like a waste when I’m not even…I’m not, like, hired to paint. I only took a few classes in college.” I crossed my arms.“No art critic found me and wanted me in their gallery. It’s just me and an Etsy account I haven’t even used.”
“I like that better. You’re doing it on your own simply because you want to. Because you like to. Because you’re good at it. Because you share it and people buy it—I bought it. Because you need to.”
I prickled against that word,need.Why?
“What’s that face?” he asked me, pointing at my scrunched nose.
“I don’t know if Ineedto paint,” I said, feeling my way to the splinter in what he said.
“What’s wrong with needing something?” He wanted to know. “If you find worth in yourself by being of service to others, why not also find worth in painting becauseit serves you?”
I didn’t know what to say. I looked down at my sandals.
“You’re going to need things, Lucy. Who knows? You might even need people sometimes.” His blue eyes locked on mine. “It can’t just be people needing you all the time. You deserve much more than that.” He turned back to the painting, looking at it with admiration. “This is Lucy just doing what feels good. This is Lucy giving into what feels right. This is Lucy in her little house just making something for herself.”
And, like he planned it, I think about how I was ignoring my art because I’d made up my mind: I wasn’t an artist.Much likeI was ignoring Adam because I’d made up my mind about him.
But sometimes the way I wanted Adam felt so close to need, like a bad habit. Like looking forward to dessert after dinner or waking up and wanting hot coffee in the morning. His presence and our conversations were a treat I could only have sometimes and I didn’t want to admit how badly my mouth was watering for it. I wasn’t supposed to want it.
Itching for his body near mine, brushing up against his arms, hearing his opinions, knowing his day,like how I longed for a paintbrush. Like an itch I wanted,no, neededto scratch.
“But, by the way, you’re wrong.” He woke me from my thoughts.
“How so?” I swallowed, my mouth dry.
“People do need you to paint. Maybe the fancy art world hasn’t found you. Maybe they never will and it’s going to be you and Etsy forever. But people need your work—and those people, not the fancy art world, will find it. Through Etsy.Or through auctions.” He winked at me, tender and sweet. “Like me. I needed that painting. It was the first thing that made this place feel like home.” He put his hand on his heart as if that was where my painting really belonged.
“Adam.” My voice was soft in a way that was new, even to me. How could I go from rolling my eyes at him to wanting to melt into his dining room floor from pure sweetness? “I’m so glad you’re the one who found this piece.”
“I’m honored to be the first owner of a Lucy Rhodes original.” He grabbed my hand and gave it a little squeeze. Something in my chest behind my rib cage broke.
Nineteen
Olivia
hi guys, this message is a literal cry for help. My yard is in dire need of help. I blocked out today to work on it and am standing here in the yard overwhelmed.
please come over and help if/whenever you can. I will provide a giant box of treats from Coffees and Commas as payment.
The day after I saw my painting hanging in Adam’s house, I put on work clothes and headed to Olivia’s. I hadn’t looked through everyone in that group thread, so I went over unaware of who else might be there.
It was a hot June day in the middle of Texas, and while Olivia’s yard was full of shady pecan trees, they were no match for the blazing humidity of the day. I was thankful for my strappy, white tank top and the sugary, icy lemonade Olivia had just handed me.
I looked around at the shocking amount of work already done to her kitchen. “What?Is Victor living here with you?How have you gotten so much done?”
“No. He is here whenever he can be. He’s just super talented. Even when he’s not here, he gives me great directions for what I need to do on my own,” she said as I twirled around her kitchen, taking it all in.
I walked into the living room to investigate. The progress was impressive. New windows had been installed and a wall had been knocked down to make the kitchen and living room more of an open concept. I looked down at my feet and saw the hardwood floors were gleaming. “It’s beautiful, Liv.”
She beamed proudly behind the kitchen island.
“You’re having a pretty good summer,” I said.
“It was needed. I was done with heartbreak,” she said determinedly. “And I had to mastermind it. I got the house. I hired the cute boy to help me. I refused to overbook myself with summer classes. I ordered the chocolate cake to eat by myself while I watchedBridgerton.”
