Page 41 of Neat
“It’s one of my favorite mediums,” I said, making my way back to the bar stool across from him. I pressed the button on the back of the camera that would show me the images I’d taken, and when I saw the one I’d just snapped of Logan, my heart squeezed. “Although, I still haven’t managed how to capture the beauty of something you see with your eyes through the lens. Seems like, for some things, it’s impossible to accomplish.”
Logan was completely oblivious to the compliment, and he started in on his notes again. “I bet you do better than you think. Why don’t you have any of your art down here yet? Your paintings, photographs…” He glanced at me before pulling his attention back to the pad. “I’m sure you have thousands.”
“Most of them are upstairs,” I said. “And I do have thousands, but probably only a dozen that are good enough to display.”
Logan stopped writing, meeting my gaze. “I doubt that. I’d love to see what you’ve created.”
His eyes were intense where they watched me, the air thick and heavy in the shop. He swallowed, taking to his notes again as I fiddled with the settings on the camera to keep myself busy.
“You’ll have to show me some of your shots sometime,” he said after a moment.
I nodded, watching his face level out as he got back to work, wondering why my lungs were being so weird with breath all of a sudden. It was like I was under water, or like I’d completely forgotten the simple, natural body functions ofinhale, exhale.
It wasn’t just me who was feeling it. I could tell Logan was off, too — and I was determined to change that.
Pulling the strap from around my neck, I set my camera down, circling the table we sat at and placing my hand over the notepad he was writing in.
He quirked a brow up at me. “Hard to write with your hand in the way.”
“So take a break,” I told him. “We’ve been working all day, and if I’m being honest, the stress rolling off you has been stressingmeout.”
I plucked the pen from his hands, shoving it and the notebook too far away from him for him to reach for them. He looked at them longingly for a moment before he let out a deep sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Honestly, you giving me so much to do today has been a blessing for me. I can’t stop thinking about the box we found, about my dad…” He swallowed, the thick Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing. “Working on stuff like this helps me get out of my head for a while.”
I frowned, crossing my arms to keep myself from reaching for him. I knew that feeling all too well, the need to escape, to move my hands in an effort to stop thinking — even if just for a while.
“I just… I can’t figure out why that stuff was in there,” he continued. “You know? Why wasthatstuff saved, tucked away? How did it survive as well as it did? Why didn’t the fire department take it, or the police? Why wasn’t it given to my mom, to my family, if it wasn’t needed for evidence?”
I blew out a sigh of my own. “I don’t know, none of it makes sense to me either.”
Logan’s frown deepened, his eyes falling to where he folded his hands in his lap.
I nudged his shoulder with my elbow. “Hey, you got the hard drive out, right? And you got the necessary equipment to see the files that are on it. That has to be comforting, at least.”
“Yes,” he agreed, lifting his gaze to mine. “But the hard drive is password protected. I can’t access anything until I crack that code.”
“And you will,” I assured him. “But, until then, there’s no sense in stressing yourself out over answers you can’t find — no matter how many times you ask the questions.”
His brows folded together again, and I chuckled, uncrossing my arms and taking a tentative step toward him. Before I could think better of it, I reached out, smoothing my thumb over the wrinkle I’d been marveling at all day.
“Have you ever painted before?” I asked, eyes on the skin that was smooth now that I’d run my thumb over it.
Logan’s breath was shallow, his eyes locked on my face as I stared at where that wrinkle had been. “Not since elementary school.”
I laughed, letting my hand drop from where I touched his face. “I think it’s time we changed that.” I held out that hand for his. “Come on, let’s have some fun.”
He grimaced. “I don’t think I can. Not right now.”
“Well,” I insisted, wiggling my fingers and nodding toward his hand. “We’re at least going to try.”
Reluctantly, Logan took my hand, and I tried not to feel the warmth of his hand in mine as more than a friendly gesture as I guided him over to the corner of the room we’d started setting up for the painting workshops. A circle of easels faced the middle of that section, each station loaded with paint and brushes and palettes. I instructed him to sit, and then I moved to the corner, pulling out two large, blank canvases.
I placed one in the easel in front of him, the other in the one next to him where I would sit. As I poured paint for us and got rinse cups ready, Logan was quiet, not even singing along to the music anymore. He was staring at the blank canvas like it was a threat rather than a release.
“You’ll like this,” I promised him when I took the seat to his left. “Just try to relax and let go.”
Logan nodded, another sigh leaving his lips as he picked up the first brush. “I don’t really know what to do.”
