Page 146 of Wild Then Wed
I glance down at the tubes scattered around me. Most are squeezed nearly flat. A few are crusted at the tips, the caps permanently fused with dried pigment.
“Yeah,” I say, picking one up and rolling it between my fingers. “A lot of these weren’t great to begin with. They survived a few too many Montana winters in the barn.” I hold up a tube of titanium white. “They weren’t really built for that kind of weather.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, just shifts his weight in the doorway like he’s not quite sure if he’s staying or leaving.
“When’d you start painting?” he asks eventually.
I keep my eyes on the palette, like it’s something that needs my attention. “Middle school, I think. I had this art teacher—Ms. Hutchins—she always gave me the leftover supplies at the end of the year. Said I had talent.”
I pause and shrug. “I don’t know if that’s true. But it gave me something to do. Something that made my brain quieter.”
He nods. “That’s how the gym is for me. Not the same, obviously. Less color. More swearing.”
“Fewer berets. Less tortured staring into the far distance.”
He laughs under his breath. “Exactly.”
For a moment, we just look at each other.
Not like we’re searching for something—just…holding. Letting the space stretch a little too long, like both of us are aware we should break it, but neither of us wants to be the first to move.
His eyes don’t leave mine, and mine don’t leave his, and there’s something unspoken hanging there that feels bigger than either of us knows what to do with. My heart does this annoying little kick. I pretend it doesn’t.
And then, finally, he steps in.
He moves slowly, like he’s still deciding if he should be in here, but his gaze moves with purpose, scanning the canvases lined up along the wall. He stops in front of one of the middle pieces. The sunflower field.
“She was right,” he says, still facing the painting.
I blink, unsure if I misheard him. “About what?”
He glances over his shoulder, then nods toward the canvas. “Your teacher. You are talented. These are…really damn good.”
Something shifts in my chest—small, but distinct. I look at the painting he’s stopped in front of and smile, almost without meaning to.
“This one’s my favorite,” he says, pointing to the sunflower painting.
“That one’s mine too,” I say. “I painted it in July.”
He doesn’t move away. Just keeps looking at it like he’s trying to figure out how it ended up in this room, in this house, like this.
“There used to be a field like that near the ranch when we were little,” I tell him. “Not a huge one, but it felt endless backthen. Ridge, Boone, and I would play hide and seek in it. The stalks felt like trees. We were so small, and everything felt so much bigger than it was. We’d get so turned around we’d start yelling Marco Polo instead.”
He huffs a small laugh, but it’s soft. His eyes are still on the painting.
“Fun fact,” I say, because the silence is starting to feel too full, “sunflowers don’t just follow the sun. When there’s no sun—on cloudy days—they turn toward each other.”
That gets his attention. He looks over, meeting my eyes like he’s seeing something else now. Something new.
“Seriously?” he asks.
I nod. “They just know where to look, I guess.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me for a beat too long, like he forgot for a second where we were. Then he turns back to the painting, and I can almost see him collecting himself.
“Smart flowers,” he murmurs, softer now.
“Yeah.” My voice catches a little, just enough that I hope he doesn’t notice.
