Page 68 of The Weight Of Falling
A sudden, terrible thought grips me. What if Joel isn’t trying to protect me from someone else at all? What if the danger is him, and this whole time he’s been trying to keep me safe from himself?
Confusion swirls like smoke inside me, so many theories clamoring for attention in my head I can barely think straight.
“So you’re ending this because you don’t want me getting hurt?” I ask carefully.
He scrubs a hand down his face, then pushes to his feet. “Yes.”
“It would be my hurt,” I retort, standing too. “My choice.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.”
I stare into his beautiful, dark eyes, and I glimpse the conflict and frustration there.
“You look at me like I’m worth saving,” he whispers.
“That’s because you are.”
For one hopeful second, I think I’ve broken through to him. But all too soon, his face closes down.
Pressure builds behind my eyes. I knew it. Tonight was always going to be less like a conversation and more like a verdict.
As if he can’t help himself, he reaches out and cradles my face gently in his hand. “Goodbye, Kenzie,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
I swallow the tangle of emotions in my throat. “I’m sure you will.”
He steps back. The movement feels symbolic—stepping away from us, from what we might have been.
If only he’d been brave enough to step forward instead.
27
With a frustrated sigh, I stare at the mess of watercolor sheets in front of me. Half a dozen false starts and not a single one worth saving. They all bear the ghosts of ideas I couldn’t bring to life. On one sheet, two squirrels are wrapped in a single knitted scarf. They’re meant to look in love, except they look like they’re being strangled. On another sheet, a hedgehog on a blanket stares up at the night sky, but his face says he’s thirty seconds from a dental appointment.
I crumple up the sketches and toss them into the trash. My drawings are supposed to be about love in all its forms, but I can’t capture that feeling this morning. None of my little creatures look as though they’re getting their happily-ever-after. And it doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to guess what I’m channeling here.
I rub the dull ache in the center of my chest and drop my brush into the rinsing jar a little harder than necessary.
It’s not the fault of the paper or the paint.
It’s Joel.
I press my palms against the edge of my worktable, willing myself to think about anything else. But every time I try to drag my mind back to work—to spring cards, pastel palettes, and Tess’s clever little captions—it drifts back to Joel and that haunted look on his face when he said goodbye.
I feel tired, even though the day has just started.
I bite my thumbnail, a habit I thought I’d kicked, but it’s back with a vengeance. Another thing to thank Joel for, along with the sleepless night.
I’m alone in the studio. I came in at five, hoping work would distract me, but it hasn’t. I can usually lose myself in my art, but today a blank page only mirrors how I feel.
I pluck a fresh sheet from the pile, determined to come up with something useful. Within minutes, there’s a rough sketch in front of me. Long fingers. The flex of a forearm. A strong jaw shadowed with stubble. And those dark eyes with their hint of vulnerability.
I shove the sheet to the bottom of the pile before Tess or Sofia can walk in and see it. I shudder to imagine the interrogation they’d subject me to.
I push back my chair and stand. Maybe a walk will clear my head.
Fifteen minutes into my walk, I already feel better. Main Street is still half asleep as the sun breaks the horizon, dew beads the awnings, and birdsong skims the crisp spring air like pebbles skipping over water.
