Page 9 of Breathing Wisteria
Heat floods through my body and the vinyl of the seat sticks to my skin uncomfortably as I wiggle around, trying to get comfortable under his intense gaze. Giving my head a quick shake to clear it, I enter my phone number and send myself a text so I have his.
“I’ll message you my address later, and you can come around seven.”
“Okay.” He opens his mouth and I think he’s going to say something else, but instead, he simply closes it and stares at me for a beat before turning around and walking out without another word.
I watch him leave, a million thoughts and questions suddenly racing through my mind and I kick myself for not asking them. Tonight, I promise myself.
“You.” Cassidy’s voice gains my attention and I turn to face her, finding an accusing finger pointed my way. “Have a lot of explaining to do.”
“I am going to kill you,” Charlie’s answering sigh rings through my phone. I have been trying to get a hold of her all afternoon, as soon as I raced out of the diner with promises to Cassidy that I would explain everything trailing behind me. Five hours later she has finally taken my call. No doubt hoping my temper would have had time to cool down.
Unfortunately for her, she’s all out of luck.
“I’m not arguing with you about this, Reeses.” I ignore her use of my childhood nickname. “I did what I thought needed to be done and I’m not going to apologize for it.” Charlie’s voice is resigned.
“What did you tell him?” I’m recalling every confession I made to her earlier in the week, and I’m mortified at the idea of her giving up my secrets to Flynn. Shamed that after everything I did to him, he should be expected to feel sorry for me.
“Nothing. Christ, what kind of friend do you think I am?”
I pace around my tiny apartment, bumping into furniture, my hand tensing around the phone.
“Well, you told him something. How else did he end up ambushing me at Monroe’s?”
“I only told him—” She cuts off and I hear someone in the background calling her name.
“Where are you?”
“At work.” Her voice lowered to a whisper.
“It’s Saturday, why are you working?”
“We’re preparing for depositions on Monday. Look, I need you to listen to me.” I hear the sound of air rushing by and I imagine Charlie striding purposefully down a hallway, probably toward some bland conference room, ready to conquer. “You need to talk to him. You both need this. It’s been almost ten fucking years and you’re both still so wrapped up in your own pain. You need to apologize to each other and forgive.” She pauses, and I hear the hush of murmured voices in the background. “You need to forgive each other and yourselves. Then, maybe, you can both finally move forward. I have to go, I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”
Just like that, she’s gone. I groan loudly into the empty space of my apartment, allowing my frustration and, if I’m completely honest, my fear to have a voice.
I go back to pacing around the room, bumping into furniture occasionally, cursing and considering for the millionth time that it’s time to find somewhere bigger to live. The second hand on the gaudy pink clock, that hangs above my bed, ticks over loudly. A constant reminder that time is always moving forward, whether we want it to or not.
Needing something to soothe my mind and heart for the next couple of hours, I drag my comfortable armchair over in front of the picture window and settle myself in, sketchbook on my legging-clad lap and charcoal pencil in hand.
As always, my mind empties as soon as the pencil begins scratching over my notepad and I allow the feel of the paper and pencil to calm me.
My career illustrating children’s books has picked up over the last few years and that, combined with the occasional artwork I commission, keeps me busy. If I’m honest, more busy than I would like at times.
It has been a few weeks since I dedicated any time to my art, the work I create for myself, not a paycheck, and my hand races over the page, images coming to life faster than I can even form them in my mind.
My hands become increasingly black as I use them to smudge and shade and when I finally start to see the piece come together, I pull back, startled.
A loud knock on the door shocks me further and I jump up, body tense, and slam my sketchpad closed. On my way to answer the door, I stuff it under a pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter.
The door rattles again just as I reach it, but I take a moment before opening it. I have no idea how to prepare myself for this conversation, this meeting. No idea, really, how to be around Flynn anymore. There are days I don’t even recognize myself anymore, I hate to imagine how disappointed he is going to be when he discovers the person I have become.
Shaking my head, I take a final deep breath and pull the door open.
He’s there, leaning against the doorframe, his thick arms crossed over his chest. A blue cap is pulled down low over his dark brown hair, dark stubble covering his strong jaw and dark brown eyes lazily caress every inch of me. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and dangerous and when my pulse immediately starts racing, it hits me how much trouble I might be in.
“Took your time.” A belligerent smirk lifts his lip. “You considered leaving me out here, didn’t you?”
I take a minute, allowing my gaze to wander over his form, admiring the way his worn, faded jeans hug his long legs and the simple black tee he’s wearing stretches over his broad chest, before I shrug my shoulders in what I pray is an indifferent manner. “It occurred to me, not gonna lie. You should probably come in before I change my mind.”
