Page 120 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“I’ve actually been thinking that I should go on a cooking show or something. I need a new career path.”

“You’ll be the first TV chef to poison everyone.”

Flipping me off, he leaves me in peace to work. Revelling in the silence, I zone out and lose myself in the mystical scene spilling from my paintbrush. When I work, I inhabit a whole other universe.

My mind can escape into the flicks of oil paint. Reality becomes whatever I want it to be. In this new plane of existence, I live a normal life. My father is alive. The trajectory of our lives was never altered by his devastating loss.

What feels like hours later, my arm is screaming from being held up for so long. I clean up and rinse off the brushes, leaving them to dry on the newspaper-covered flooring. The sound of voices floats in from the other room.

“There is no way I’m painting the walls pink.”

“Arianna would love it,” Zach argues.

“No! It’s not happening. We already indulge her too much.”

“Spoilsport.”

I quickly wash the splotches of paint from my sun-blemished face before padding out to find the others. Willow hasn’t felt up to going furniture shopping yet, so we set up a nest of pillows and blankets in the living room instead of a sofa.

Killian has installed a brand new log burner in the corner, greedily consuming the dried wood inside. The once-dingy kitchen has been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Willow has got it looking brand new; even the old tiles are sparkling and clean.

The scent of homemade lasagne saturates the air, and my stomach growls loudly. Killian’s a decent cook, but this smell reminds me of Aunt Lyra and her home cooking.

“There’s a plate in the oven for you,” Willow explains.

She’s nestled amongst the tangle of blankets strewn across the floor, her head resting on Zach’s chest. They’re watching a movie on his old laptop, their faces lit by the glow of flames from the nearby fire.

“Thanks, I didn’t realise I missed dinner.”

“I did try to come and get you.” She smiles up at me, stifling a laugh. “You were fully engrossed. That was a couple of hours ago.”

“Shit. Must’ve zoned out.”

Grabbing the still warm food, I spoon some salad on my plate and join them in the living room. Killian is still outside, sawing wood like a man possessed. He’s been very tight-lipped about what he’s building for Arianna next.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I dig into the lasagne and groan my appreciation. Damn, she’s a killer cook. I rarely make it out of my studio for mealtimes, but since she temporarily moved in, the thought of eating alone has held no appeal.

“Good, huh?” Zach mumbles.

“So good.”

“I used to cook for my father when I was younger,” Willow reveals. “I missed it while I was in Mexico. I wasn’t allowed to go into the kitchen, even though I was friends with the head chef’s son.”

“How come?” I ask without thinking.

Her face darkens. “They weren’t allowed to feed me without my husband’s permission. I snuck in sometimes just to hang out though. Antonio cooked the best empanadas.”

Zach’s eyes meet mine. She has never revealed much about her past, and we agreed not to push her, even when Killian wanted to roll out the third degree to get the truth.

“They weren’t allowed to feed you?” Zach prods.

“He didn’t always let me eat, if I was bad or I upset him,” she answers vaguely, shutting back down. “It would have been bad for them to disobey his orders.”

“Bad, how?” I push her.

Willow stiffens, the spell of honesty breaking. “Enough about me. We don’t need to talk about this. What should I buy first for this place?”

“A dog,” I mumble around a mouthful.

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