Abbey”—which so happens to be one of my grandmother’s favorite poems.
I walk over to the bookshelf with my eyes fixed on Thomas. My dad’s name was Thomas, and this painting truly is for him. Under the paint are slivers of a card he wrote to me, a love note he wrote my mother when they meet in high school, and a button from one of his shirts. Sprinkled over the paint, so sparsely it’s not noticeable, are the soft, soft hairs I got from his beard trimmer and hid in an oval locket that I stole from Grans after he died.
I was only seven, but I had a sense that I should keep every fragment of my dad that I could find. When my mother decided to have him cremated, I stole some of the ashes, too. I stirred them into the paint for Thomas, and I don’t care who thinks it’s weird or gross. This is probably my favorite painting. I did it in high school. It was the first piece of art that ever really meant something to me.
Kellan hung it on the wall for me while I slept.
I’m still thinking about this as I pad downstairs in my pink robe.
The living area is radiant with sunlight, drifting in from the skylights in the ceiling and flooding through the wall of windows that faces the river. Before my foot touches down on the dark hardwood, I hear the frenzied click of dogs’ nails, and Truman bounds across the rug, tail wagging, ears flouncing.
“Hi, boy.” I crouch down and tug one of his ears into my hand. “What soft ears you have. How are you?”
On a whim, I wrap my arms around him: thick and warm and soft and panting. I love dogs because they warm the soul without the baggage of another human.
“C’mon boy... where’s your daddy?”
I find Kellan in the kitchen, making pancakes. At first I can’t see much of him because he’s standing behind an island, so I step around it. I find he’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him, in a pair of loose, charcoal longue pants and a white undershirt that emphasizes his beautiful body—and his gold-blond hair.
I smile a little, and he arches a brow at me. “Daddy?”
I laugh. “You are kind of his dad. Unless you’re his brother?”
He scowls. “No.”
He pushes a plate of bacon at me as I walk back around the island and take a seat at the bar.
His hair looks messy, and there’s some delicious scruff on his jaw. I can’t help noticing his eyes look tired. I feel a pang of guilt for not asking how his night went, although it’s not as if I actually could have. I was already in the harness when he woke me up.
“Okay, bro,” I tease. “Then dad it is.”
“I’m not his dad.” He flips a pancake.
“Adoptive dad?” I want him to smile, but he just gives me a blank look.
“Things must not have gone very well last night on your... um, errand.”
I see the muscle of his jaw clench. He doesn’t even lift his gaze to me.
“Okayyy. Well cool beans.” I grab two pieces of bacon off the plate and get up to get myself a drink. If he’s going to be a moody butthead, maybe I’ll go have my breakfast somewhere else. I can sit on the balcony and continue reading news stories about Kellan Drake.
I grab a Mason jar out of a cabinet and a glass pitcher out of the refrigerator. I set it on the countertop.
“You should try some lemons in your water,” I advise. Just filling the silence, I guess. (Cleo Whatley: always awkward).
He doesn’t reply, and my feelings war with each other. Part of me feels sorry for him, part of me is irritated that he’s still so moody—especially after our night last night. Part of me feels pessimistic, like I’ll never really get to know him, and still another part wants to erect a wall around myself.
I pour some water into my glass and feel the warm weight of his hand around my wrist. I look down, then get the nerve to glance up at his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His blue eyes hold mine.
“What for?”
“For being a dick.” He lets me go and runs his hands through his hair. He lets a little breath out, like he’s been holding it. “Bad night.”
His voice sounds thick—emotional, even. His cuts his eyes away and then turns back around toward the skillet. The pancakes sizzle,