Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,68
you won’t be able to brush him off or forget him with nothing more than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s?”
“Mom—”
“Is it because you know, deep down, if you let yourself fall in love with this man… he might really hurt you?”
I lean back in my chair, pressing my eyes closed to shut out her words.
“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know what I’m feeling, anymore.”
Her fingers squeeze mine. “You don’t have to, Gemma. You just have to give yourself permission to hope.”
“For what?” I ask miserably.
“For the possibility of something truly wonderful. Because a life without hope, without love… that’s really no life at all.”
***
I spend the entire next day in the sunroom with a borrowed canvas and mom’s collection of oils, painting until my mind goes blank. Music drifts quietly from the speakers, but the only other sound is of my brushstrokes as they glide and smudge and layer over one another as the hours slip by. Mom knows better than to disturb me, not that she would — she’s sequestered in her sculpting room, working on a newly commissioned piece for a client. When inspiration strikes, she’s been known to lock herself away for full days at a time, appearing only for the occasional snack or bathroom break.
It’s been a long time since I last spilled my soul onto canvas — too long. I’ve got so many pent up emotions, my fingers practically shake with need to release them. I paint for hours and barely notice. If not for the gradual lengthening of shadows as the afternoon sun wanes into twilight, I’d never know any time has passed at all.
When I finally break for the day, it’s nearly dinnertime and my canvas looks as schizophrenic as I’m feeling, covered in bold colors that are seemingly at odds with each other. Sad blues meld into passionate reds, then blur into jealous greens that fade to cowardly yellows — like my mind has been scooped out and poured onto paper, every emotion a paint-splotch.
Not exactly a Picasso, but it’s mine, and though drained both physically and emotionally, I feel more myself than I have in days. Longer, even.
I barely touched my paints the whole time I was “dating” Ralph. And even in the weeks and months before then, I felt utterly uninspired every time I sat down at the easel. I was blocked, and I didn’t know why. Worse, there was nothing I could do about it.
You can’t force art.
But today, sitting here, with thoughts of Chase swimming thick as gesso in my mind, I’ve felt expressive, in-touch with my own emotions in a way I haven’t been since… maybe ever.
It’s wonderful and terrifying, happy and heartbreaking all at the same time.
I can’t think about it — about him — so I slip off my stool and turn my back on the colorful canvas.
Lifting my arms above my head, I crane my neck and bow my back, sending instant relief to my cramped muscles. Whenever I spend hours painting, I feel like a frail, ninety-year-old with arthritic joints, as though expending so much artistic energy has aged me decades, rather than hours.
Stomach rumbling, I wander from the enclosed porch into the kitchen, hoping there’s some food in the fridge… and feel my jaw drop open.
Because my mother isn’t locked away sculpting in the back room.
She’s sitting right there at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea, casual as can be.
And Chase Bossy-Is-My-Middle-Name Croft is in the seat across from her.
***
“Hey,” he says casually.
My mouth gapes. “You did not just say hey to me.”
His eyebrows go up.
“You did not just say hey to me like it’s no big deal that you’re here, in my childhood home, sitting at the table across from my mother, having a freaking tea party.”
His lips quirk up in a shameless grin. “Sorry, sunshine, but I did.”
A sound escapes my mouth — a scream, a squeal, it’s not easy to classify — and my eyes slide to my mother, who’s looking all too pleased with herself.
“Mom, tell me you had nothing to do with this.”
“Gemma, you know I don’t like to lie.”
Betrayed by my own flesh and blood!
“Bu…wha…” The sound squeaks from my throat again, louder this time. “This isn’t…”
They both stare at me, expressions amused.
“Why?” I finally manage to ask.
Chase stands. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“It’s not my phone,” I say immediately.
“Fine,” he agrees, stepping closer. “You weren’t answering the phone I gave you.”
I shuffle back a step, keeping a safe amount of distance