Page 24 of Irresistible Silver Fox

"Macy... Maggie…Madeline?" Dave offers, his brow furrowed, trying to remember.

"Oh, wait, it was, Marissa," I crow, my laughter echoing through the valley.

"And never forget, she was your disastrous date; I was just there to witness the epic train wreck!"

Our descent is filled with laughter; it doesn't matter that our legs are aching or the trail is long; we have somehow found the childlike joy of companionship we'd carried from the baseball diamond to the trails of the forests. Discussing past shenanigans and sharing tales of our youth, our bond deepens as our laughter echoes through the verdant stillness of Trakson National Forest.

Dave's booming laughter mingles with the sounds of the forest, a soundtrack that had always accompanied all of our adventures. Yet, this time, underneath all the familiar merriment, a pang of guilt tugs at the strings of my conscience. The face of Izzie, Dave's daughter, flashes before me in bouts. Her curly blonde hair, warm brown eyes, and infectious laughter – I’m not just sleeping with her; I’m falling for her.

I steal a glance at Dave as he jubilantly hikes on. He is my buddy, my partner in crime. We'd shared more in our brief span of life than most people do in a lifetime. I could count on him, from a brawl with a jerk pitcher, to a shoulder to lean on after failed relationships...but how would he react knowing that his best friend is harboring feelings for his only child?

His heavy guffaw bounces off the valley walls, shaking me from my reverie. “Race you to the bottom!” he challenges, his boyish grin toothy and wide.

In that shared, uninhibited laughter, I find my resolve slipping away. My affection for Izzie and my bond with Dave, both genuine, have become the two sides of a coin I don’t want to toss.

The guilt wrings my heart out. In the soft rustling of the leaves, I hear Izzie’s carefree giggle, reminiscent of the numerous hushed conversations shared during stolen moments. Beauty and guilt dance a heartrending waltz as my emotional tug-of-war resonates with our jovial hiking conversation.

As we near the bottom, heart in throat, I shift my gaze towards the setting sun, phasing out of my foggy internal conflict. Dave cheers at having reached the foothill, unaware of the secret torment gnawing at me.

The sun dips below the line of trees, casting long shadows that dance with mine on the forest floor, mirroring the dark dilemma in my heart. I have to figure things out soon, with Izzie, with Dave. Just not up here on this mountain, amidst the beauty of the wilderness and the mirthful echoes of a friendship resurging.

This hike had given me miles to walk but taught me that some trails were just not that straightforward. With a heavy sigh, I follow Dave, each laugh, each shared memory grooving a deeper pit of guilt into my heart. Life, I realize, was the toughest trail I was set upon to tread.

I can't keep seeing Izzie. After last night, in the moon room, when she'd fallen asleep on me, I know now that we have taken this too far. That we are both getting too attached to something that would never be, Dave and I have a history. We are best friends.

I need to end it with Izzie.

Izzie

As I step into the moon room, the chilled tile floor cool under my bare toes, I can't help but feel a flutter of excitement. This isn't the first time I'm setting up an art lesson, no, but it is the first time for Zak, my somewhat mysterious, decidedly moody, but effortlessly charming subject. The room, normally a haven of tranquility and calm, hums with newfound anticipation.

I’d given art lessons back in Cali to a local school. I have a feeling that some of the kids there may be better than Zak. While Zak is excellent with all things DIY, and seems to know more about electricity and those details than any ex-baseball player should, I have a feeling that he doesn’t particularly have a talent for art. Though, he does have very, very talented hands.That, I know first hand.

I’ll admit, I’m excited for tonight. After all the craziness of the kidnapping and finding out about the babies, I feel overwhelmed. This time with Zak feels like an escape from all of that. I’m not kidding myself though, I do realize I am going to have to tell Zak the news soon. After tonight though. Tonight I need one last night of normalcy, of joking around with Zak, making art together, then making love. Then, tomorrow, in the light of day I’d decided to tell him the truth. It would then be in his hands to decide what to do with it. I couldn’t keep this to myself any longer. Plus, a small, very secret part of me really hopes he will be happy. That small part hopes that he’d been imagining a future together too, and that this is just a slight fast forward on those plans.

My hands move with skilled efficiency. I've draped canvas tarps across the polished marble floor, a protective layer guarding against the onslaught of potential paint splatters and accidental spills. The room practically glimmers under the soft glow of the lighting, reflecting off the white essence of canvas and casting long, comforting shadows. My artistic instinct tingles, this is the perfect setting.

Under the gaze of my moon and stars mural – my homage to the beautiful night sky – I've arranged an assortment of art supplies that could give any art store a run for their money. I might’ve gone overboard at the supply shop. I want this to be perfect though. The perfect final date before it all might, and probably would, blow up. The faint scent of paint and ink permeates the air, mixing with the lingering sweetness of that cherry blossom candle he'd admitted to liking.

A prickle of joy hums beneath my skin as I adjust the easels. Side by side, parallel to one another. Not too close, but just right for sneaking casual glances. There is both closeness for companionship and enough space for personal creativity. And to the side, a small, round table bearing two slices of that exquisite chocolate-raspberry cake from the tiny bakery downtown he'd introduced me to. The woman in there is so sweet and seems to know him really well. I make a mental note to ask him about that.

I step back, surveying my work, and that’s when I see it - not a classroom but a nest. An offering filled with comfort, vibrancy, and just the right amount of warmth. The room, bathed in soft-light glow and punctuated by the inviting fragrance, is a canvas in itself - the best I could offer for Zak's initiation to my style of art.

Everything is as ready as it'll ever be. My heart jumps at the thought of Zak walking into this space. Would his eyes light up with the glow of flickering light bulbs or would his brooding gaze seek solace in the calming moon portrait? Whatever reaction he may produce, it will be an art in itself, ready to be sketched in my heart. Warmth blooms in my chest as I imagine his reaction, anticipation curling around my heart like a sweet vine.

This isn't a professional artistic endeavor - no. It's an invitation, a piece of my soul manifested into a room, hoping to collide with Zak's. It is vulnerability and strength molded together. I'm not just giving him a taste of art; I'm offering him a glimpse of my heart - passionate, hopeful, and fiercely, embarrassingly in love. I hope Zak will be able to see my admission in the set up. I hope that he will be able to see that this is my heart.

I hear the front door open and close in a click resonating through the house.

“I hope you’re ready, Picasso! I am about to give you the lesson of your life!” I call out, excited to have a fun evening with Zak.

He doesn’t respond so I imagine he’s still gathering himself together. I continue to prepare the supplies, ensuring everything is in the right place.

I'm never one to waste a minute after setting everything up. The room I'd picked for tonight's art lesson was basked in a soft golden glow as evening began to settle in. I, ever the effervescent and ambitious gal, busy myself mixing paints, my heart already brimming with excitement.

"And tonight," I speak to the room in faux-seriousness, a smile playing on my lips, "Zak Walters, Hoola Bay’s most coveted bachelor, will learn how art is created. He will learn how to craft and create and -"

I pause my dramatic soliloquy as the door opens and Zak steps in. Tall, handsome, with a brooding intensity I'd often found alluring. But something is off tonight. Maybe he just needs warming up, he had just driven here after all, and after many mornings driving here this summer with Zak, I know all about his road rage tendencies. His usually playful brown eyes were stormy, and there is a certain stiff edge to his jawline.

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