Page 16 of Wicked Minds
Admittedly, amongst the stress and chaos of my eleven days inside their house, I found little pockets of peace in the quiet moments with Royce. That same sense of peace washes over me now as I sink into the leather seat and watch the world pass out my window.
“Have you been doing okay?” he asks tentatively when we’re halfway home. “You don’t need anything?”
His offering takes me by surprise. “After receiving a food delivery large enough to feed the entire Halston student body, there is absolutely nothing I could want.”
Royce snorts. “Don’t look my way, it wasn’t me.”
“Oh, I know. I’m thinking it was a certain blond-haired hockey player.”
Royce chuckles. “He wanted to ensure you were taken care of and to make sure you’d know he was thinking of you.”
“They’ve stayed away,” I hedge.
“They have.”
Biting on my lower lip, I offer, “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Riley.”
We lapse into silence for the rest of the journey home, yet I don't immediately move to get out when he pulls up at the curb outside my building.
I’m not sure why I linger; I just know that the silence inside this truck isn’t the same as the oppressive silence waiting for me in my apartment. Don’t get me wrong, my apartment has been a sanctuary for me this last week, but it’s also been a prison. The quiet awaiting me up there isn’t the same as the one I’m sitting in now. It’s solitary. Barren. It’s missing Logan’s teasing and Royce’s quiet brooding. It’s missing my daughter’s squealing laughter and off-pitch singing.
It’s missing any vivaciousness of life.
Honestly, it’s lonely in a way I hadn’t noticed before.
“I, uh, have something to show you,” Royce says uncertainly, before reaching into the backseat to retrieve a sketchpad.
He flicks through it until he finds what he’s looking for, then hesitates.
“Is it my sketch?” I question when he appears stuck as to what to do.
“Huh? Oh, no. I’m still working on that. It’s uh… Just, here.” He practically shoves the sketchpad into my hands, and I gasp atthe drawing of a woman dancing, her arms extended above her head, toes pointed toward the ground.
“Is this me?” I question with awe, unable to look up from the drawing as I trace the dancer’s figure with my fingers. The sharp lines, the way they’ve somehow captured exactly how the dancer was feeling… it’s indescribable. Poignant and ethereal.
“It is,” he confesses in a rough voice.
I can practically feel the emotions jumping off the page as though I’m back there in the studio, even though I don’t know when he drew this or what reason had driven me to the studio that day.
“It’s beautiful, Royce.”
Gently taking the sketchpad back from me, he carefully tears out the page. “I want you to have it.”
“Oh, I can’t?—”
“Take it,” he insists. “You should have it.”
I glance down at the drawing before looking up at him. “Why?”
Glancing away, he rubs at the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Because I want you to see what I do when I look at you. The strength and poise you wear so elegantly. The determination that burns from within like an eternal flame. You’re a fighter—a survivor. The next time you doubt yourself, look at this drawing. Remember who you are. What you’re capable of. Everything you’ve overcome.”
A ball of emotion has wedged itself in the back of my throat, making it impossible to respond. All I can do is give him a jerky nod. My gaze is still focused on the drawing as I try to see for myself everything he just pointed out.
Eventually, I clear my throat, gathering myself and cautiously taking the drawing in my hand, careful not to crease the page as I move to get out of the truck.
With my fingers wrapped around the door handle, I look over at Royce. “I’m working again tomorrow night—which I’m guessing you already know.” He gives an acknowledging nod. “Perhaps I’ll avail of your stalking to hitch a ride home,” I half-tease.
