Page 31 of Cold as Stone
“Everything’s perfect.” Her tone suggests the opposite.
I watch her paint for a moment, her movements precise despite the tension I can see in her shoulders. “You’re doing the whole hallway yourself?”
“That was the plan.” She doesn’t look at me. “Unless the painting police are here to stop me.”
I bite back a retort, remembering how well that approach worked earlier. Instead, I shrug out of my cut, folding it carefully and setting it on a nearby chair where it won’t get splattered. “You got another brush?”
That gets her attention. She glances over her shoulder, surprise evident in her expression. “You’re offering to help?”
“Unless you’d rather I leave.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide if this is some kind of trick. “There’s an extra brush in the paint tray. Grab the smaller ladder if you want the top half.”
I do as instructed, setting up the ladder a few feet down from hers. We work in silence for a while, the only sounds are the soft music and the rhythmic swish of brushes against the wall. The quiet isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s not hostile either. Just… cautious.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally, focusing on a stubborn corner. “For earlier.”
She doesn’t respond right away, and I don’t push. Just keep painting, giving her the space to reply or not.
“Me too,” she says eventually, so quietly I almost miss it. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that.”
“You had every right to be pissed,” I concede. “I was being overbearing.”
“You were being protective,” she corrects, dipping her brush in the paint. “I’m just not used to that.”
The simple admission lands like a weight on my chest. Of course she’s not used to it. Her mother was barely functional most days, and as far as I know, Patty Sullivan never had a relationship that wasn’t either abusive or negligent. Who would have protected Kya growing up?
“Why’d you really come back?” I ask. “To Stoneheart, I mean. Besides dealing with your mom’s estate.”
She’s quiet for so long I think she might not answer. Then she sighs, setting down her brush.
“I guess I was looking for something.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, gaze fixed on some distant point. “Connection, maybe. Belonging. I’ve moved around so much with my work, so I’ve never really found that. As messed up as this town was for me growing up, it’s still the only place that ever felt like home.”
The admission feels raw, vulnerable in a way Kya rarely allows herself to be.
“Why’d you buy the bar?”
She hesitates. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
I roll another layer onto the wall. “Seems like you’d be running the other way from here, what with all the bad memories.”
She shrugs. “Not all of them are bad. Some are worth keeping.” Finally, she glances my way. “What about you? Why’d you stay? Join the club?”
It’s my turn to consider the question. “Same reason, I guess. Belonging. Purpose.” I dip my brush, focusing on the task. “After the army, I was… adrift. Couldn’t figure out where I fit anymore. The club gave me that back.”
“Does Emma ever visit?” she asks, changing the subject slightly.
“Christmas. Sometimes Thanksgiving.” I shake my head, remembering my sister’s last whirlwind visit. “She’s always in a rush to get back to the city, though. This place is too small for her now.”
“But not for you.”
“Never was.” I glance over at her. “Some of us are built for small towns. For community. For roots.”
Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe. Understanding. “Yeah. I tried the city thing. Had the fancy apartment, the IKEA furniture, the whole nine yards. But it never felt…”
“Real,” I finish for her.
“Exactly.” Her smile is small but genuine, the first one I’ve seen all night. “Nothing felt permanent. Just… temporary.”
