Page 75 of Losing Forever
“Okay.” I take her hand, ignoring how perfectly it fits in mine.
She leads me up the modern staircase and across a catwalk that overlooks the TV area downstairs. Four doors fill a small hallway, each one open a few inches. She stops at the last one on the right, and grips the handle but doesn’t open the door. Instead, she rests her head against it and takes a deep breath.
“Bray, if you need to do this alone, just say the word. You know how much I love staring at the trees out back,” I add, to lighten the mood. She likes my humor.
A soft giggle escapes her. She straightens. “It’s not that. I haven’t changed anything in this room. It’s part of my old life, the old me. I’m not sure if I’m ready to face her.”
“Are you that different?”
She glances over her shoulder, her expression more peaceful than I expected. “See for yourself. I want you to.” She pushes the door open and walks into the room.
I follow, unsure what to expect. The color of the walls takes me by surprise. A deep purple-ish pink. Plum maybe? Knickknacks—jewelry, makeup, lotions, perfumes, and paintbrushes—cover light wood furniture that matches the floors. The bedding has a bohemian style, and the walls are covered with canvas artwork, like a gallery. A sketchbook and colored pencils rest on a futon chair near a large window. A big dream catcher hangs from the center of the curtain rod, with turquoise and gold curtains on either side. Clothes spill out from a closet that’s half-open. Braylee was messy.
“Well?” She stands near the bed, watching me peruse the space.
“It’s colorful.”
Her gaze bounces from the bedding to the walls, and she nods.
“I didn’t know you draw.” I point to the sketchbook, resisting the urge to open it. She might not want me touching her stuff.
“I don’t.” She crosses her arms the way she does when she’s uncomfortable.
I stop moving around and gesture to the walls. “Clearly you loved art. Favorite artist?”
She shrugs. “It was a local girl.”
“They’re interesting.” Landscapes of mountains, beaches, oceans, and gardens. “She was talented. Not that I know much about art, but I like how she took natural settings and added a modern twist with bold colors.”
One near the nightstand of her big bed grabs my attention. A field of purple flowers that meet up with a field of yellow ones.
“That’s like the picture you have in your room back in Florida,” I say. “The colors are bolder in the canvas but it’s the same.”
She stares at it for a long moment, a frown curving her perfect lips. “My mom and I talked about visiting the lavender fields in Provence, France. We’d been to a couple lavender farms outside of Seattle. Mom loved flowers. We’d visit the tulip fields every spring.”
“You could still go.” An idea forms that should be shut down immediately. Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “I could go with you if you don’t mind traveling with a sex god who’s also great at comic relief.”
What am I doing? Blurring lines and making things worse. I’m supposed to be ending this, not prolonging it.
She gives me a curious look, no doubt shocked by my offer. Then she giggles and shakes her head. “What happened to man-slave?”
“I’ve been promoted to sex god.”
She giggles harder. “I’m glad you’re here, Grayson. It makes doing this easier.”
Well, shit. How do I leave now? She needs me. Even with all the loss in Braylee’s life, she never seemed like she needed anyone. My neck heats at how complicated things are getting, and I hate myself for my reaction.
“I think I’m going to sell these or donate them.” Braylee's removing the canvases from the walls, the ones she can reach.
I kick myself for the clusterfuck going on in my head and remove the higher artwork for her. She stacks them by size in neat piles on the bed. When she sets the painting of the lavender field on top, I take it.
“Can I have this one?” I ask. She can’t get rid of it. I won’t let her.
She thinks for a minute, her lips twisting in that cute way.
“Please?” I add, hugging the smaller painting to my chest.
“It’s not a famous artist or anything.”
