Page 40 of Brushed and Buried
“I’m not saying you have to do anything about it,” she says quickly. “Adrian’s a grown man; he can handle his own feelings. I just thought you should know. For years, he couldn’t create anything meaningful because he’d lost his inspiration. And now, after a few days with you, he’s drawing like his life depends on it.”
She starts walking again, heading back toward the resort. I follow, my mind reeling.
“I should probably get back,” Holly says. “But Vince?”
I look at her.
“Whatever happened between you two in high school, maybe it’s worth seeing where it could go. It could be the universe trying to tell you something.”
She picks up her pace, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sound of waves against the rocks.
I walk slowly back to the resort, Holly’s words echoing in my head. Adrian lost his muse years ago. Adrian’s been drawing constantly since we got here. Adrian’s sketches are mostly of me.
The pieces of information swirl together, forming patterns I’m not sure I want to recognize. Because if Holly is right, if I’m somehow connected to Adrian’s ability to create, then what does that make me? What does that make us?
I think about the careful way Adrian has been avoiding me, the moments when his guard drops and I catch glimpses of something deeper. The way he looked at me across the dinner table last night, like he was trying to solve a puzzle he couldn’t quite see clearly.
Back in my room, I stand at the window overlooking the beach path we just walked. Somewhere in this resort, Adrian is probably sketching, his pencil moving across paper with the kind of certainty I’ve only seen in people who know exactly what they’re doing.
The thought should make me feel proud, maybe flattered. Instead, it fills me with something heavier, like a sense of responsibility I don’t know how to carry.
Because if I’m Adrian’s muse, if my being here has somehow reignited the part of him that creates, then what happens when this wedding week ends? What happens when we return to our separate lives, to the careful distance we’ve kept for years? Would I still matter? Would he still need me?
The ocean stretches endlessly beyond the glass, and I find myself wondering if some things are too complicated to be solved by good intentions and perfect timing. I wonder if some connections run so deep that trying to understand them is like trying to map the ocean floor with your bare hands.
Outside, a seabird cries, sharp and lonely against the sky. The sound echoes long after the bird is gone, and I’m left standing at the window, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with the knowledge that I might be the reason Adrian Callahan remembers how to make art, and I am nothing more than that.
The question follows me for the rest of the morning, persistent as the tide.
15
Vince
The afternoon stretches long and heavy, the kind of heat that makes everything feel sluggish and thick. I’ve been avoiding the main resort areas since my walk with Holly this morning, her words still churning in my head like a storm I can’t outrun.
A sharp knock on my door breaks through my spiraling thoughts. I open it to find George, already dressed in a crisp polo and khakis, his hair still damp from the shower.
“You coming or what? We’re supposed to meet Trevor and his family in fifteen.” He checks his watch.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
George studies my face. “You good, man?”
“Yeah, all good.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. “Right. Fifteen minutes.”
After he leaves, I head for the shower, hoping the cold water will wash away some of the tension that’s been building upwithin me since breakfast. Walking past the lobby, I hear voices from the balcony near Adrian’s suite.
The words are muffled through the sliding glass doors, but I catch fragments. Adrian’s voice, tense and frustrated. Then another voice, tinny through what must be a phone speaker.
I shouldn’t listen. I know I shouldn’t. But something about Adrian’s tone makes me freeze.
“I understand the semi-urgency, Matheo. I know the gallery is pushing through their months-long exhibit with another artist, so we might lose our window. Yes, I know how long this project has been stalled.”
A pause. The other voice, sharper now, though I can’t make out the exact words.
“Look, I’ve found a muse again, okay? I can finish the pieces now. The inspiration is there.” Adrian’s voice is flat and clinical, like he’s discussing a business transaction. “I just need a few more days to work with the subject matter.”
