Page 35 of Brushed and Buried
Vince is watching me with that same careful attention from across the table.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, meant only for my ears.
I nod, though my throat feels tight. “Fine. Just…remembering.”
Vince’s expression shifts, becomes softer somehow. Like he knows exactly what I’m remembering, and maybe he’s been thinking about it too.
Lance’s voice cuts through the moment. “So, what’s the plan for this afternoon? Please tell me it involves lying by the pool and not moving for several hours.”
“I actually have some calls to make,” I say, surprised by how normal my voice sounds. “Work stuff.”
“On vacation?” Holly frowns. “Is it the gallery?”
Thank god for Holly giving me an idea on what to say. “Yeah, the gallery owner wants to discuss some of my pieces for the upcoming show,” I lie smoothly. “It won’t take long.”
It’s not entirely untrue. My artist manager has been leaving increasingly urgent voicemails about the exhibition deadline. But mostly I need space to breathe, to process these memories that’s settled in my chest like stones.
Vince is mid-conversation with George about tomorrow’s boat rental, but the second I look at him, he turns. It is automatic, like a reflex. George notices the shift in attention, raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.
“I should go too,” Vince says. “I promised my dad I’d call him back.”
The group starts to disperse, making loose plans to meet up later. I gather my sketchbook, hyperaware of Vince’s presence beside me as we walk toward the parking area.
“Adrian,” Vince says when we reach the cars, voice careful. “About before…”
“Which before?” I ask, though I know exactly which one.
“All of them.” Vince’s eyes are serious, searching my face for something. “Do you ever wonder if we remember things the same way?”
I am shocked. I am in shock that he would even dare to bring this thing up now, with our friends just a few feet away. The question hangs between us, loaded with ten years of silence and everything we’ve never said. I think about eighteen-year-old Vince watching me from the wings, about his paint-stained hands and our quiet conversations in the empty theater. I thinkabout all the ways we’ve been circling each other ever since, afraid to get too close, afraid to stay too far away.
“Every damn day,” I say, the words scraping out rougher than I intended. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been swallowing glass.
Vince nods slowly, like that’s exactly what he expected and feared to hear.
We stand there for another moment, the tension of shared memory heavy between us. Then he gets in his car and drives away, leaving me alone with the sound of waves against rocks and the echo of everything we still haven’t said.
13
Vince
The hotel restaurant feels worlds away from the chaos of the past few days. Warm amber light spills from overhead fixtures, casting everything in honeyed tones. The clatter of silverware against plates mixes with the gentle murmur of conversation, creating a cocoon of intimacy around our corner table. I find myself relaxing into my chair for the first time since Adrian walked back into my life.
I watch the others settle in, noting the way Trevor immediately claims the seat closest to the window. He always needs the best view, even at dinner. Lance drops into his chair with the kind of boneless exhaustion that comes from too much sun and alcohol, while George sits with that straight-backed posture that screams military training even in civilian clothes.
It’s Adrian who surprises me, though. Instead of taking the seat farthest from me like he usually does, he slides into the seat directly across from me. He is close enough that I can see the faint freckles across his nose, close enough to notice thathis brown eyes are rich and warm, almost like melted chocolate catching the light.
“Pass the bread,” Trevor says, reaching across Lance, who’s mid-story about a particularly difficult patient who insisted his broken arm was actually a government conspiracy.
“So I’m standing there,” Lance continues, gesturing with his fork, “trying to explain basic anatomy to a guy who thinks his radius is a tracking device, when…”
“When you realized you should’ve gone into veterinary medicine instead,” George cuts in, deadpan. “Animals don’t argue with the X-rays.”
The table erupts in laughter. Even Adrian, who’s been quietly sketching in the margins of his napkin, looks up with a grin that transforms his entire face. Relief loosens in my chest at the sight, a knot I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
Across the table, Becca leans toward Adrian, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries anyway. “So, Holly mentioned you help friends with their parties and things? That’s quite the skill set.”
Adrian’s cheeks flush slightly. “I like organizing things, events. Plus, I have an eye for detail. It comes from the art background, I think.”
