Page 35 of Will to Run

“No way! Are you going to invite me in to see your genius?”

“It’s not even close to that; it was just getting my hand used to the paintbrush again.”

“I know I told you I max out at finger painting, but I have to imagine it feels like getting back on a bike to some degree?”

“It did,” I nod my head. “As soon as the brush set in my hand, it felt like it used to; an extension of me.”

“How did you do?”

“I think it’s fitting,” I smile. “I mean, it’s not my best work or anything, and I could pick apart a lot about it, but it felt good just to do it. Good… and sad. The last day I painted was the day my mom died.”

He rolls his lips into his teeth and nods. “Well, I’m proud of you, Della. That couldn’t have been easy, but you did it. Like so many things you’re doing. It’s not easy, but you’re doing it. Now let me in so I can see. And look,” he says, holding up a styrofoam container and bringing his voice to a whisper, “I even stole something for you.”

I open the door further so he can come in. “What’s that?” I whisper back, playing along. Without even trying, he’s pulled me into his world.

“Well, the seasonal bakers arrived this week, and they needed some taste testers for a couple of new recipes. I had my sample, but snuck some in a doggy bag. I remember you saying you had some insane rules before your wedding, and I thought you might not remember what good cake tastes like. Divine, by the way. It tastes divine. I’m not even going to ask what flavor is your favorite because I already know your answer will be all of these.”

He saunters into the living room, puts the cake box down, and leans on the counter, crossing his arms with a grin, challenging me to tell him he’s wrong. I’m not sure what I needed after this emotional first painting, but Jaxon flirting and cake seem like a pretty great start.

18

JAXON

I’m so pissed at the timing of everything: that I’m meeting this woman on the heels of her running from her wedding; that she’s come at the worst possible time for me before high season; that Cayson is in baby-mama hell, so I can’t rely on him to help more; that the most significant chemistry I’ve ever had is with someone who has no intention of staying. Just pissed.

The way I’m looking at it, I have a finite amount of time with her, and although things won’t progress past this contract, why shouldn’t I enjoy the woman who has me so curious? Part of me is nervous to entertain the idea, because I have a feeling that if I let myself start wanting her, I won't know how to stop. Then, it’ll really suck when she leaves.

But as I’m sitting in the cake tasting today, my mind wanders to all the sunrise mornings this week, and how they were my favorite part of the day. By the time I hit the lemon blueberry slice, I decide that I’m going to pay my barn hand a visit tonight. I’m sure she wouldn’t blink an eye if I knocked on her door for no reason, but the treat gives me an excuse to see her, and might even brighten her evening, too.

As soon as the tasting is done, I go straight to her place. After ringing the doorbell, I’m standing as the familiar flicker of anticipation runs through me. It’s the same one I’ve gotten every morning right before I see her. When she opens the door, I can’t hold back my grin. I lift the cake in explanation. In return, she tells me she painted today for the first time in a long time, and the excitement in her voice makes my smile widen. I’m not sure I have the right to be proud of her, but I am. She isn’t secretive, but based on the bits and pieces she’s dropped over the last week, I bet there are a couple of layers to the trauma this woman kept.

Apparently, she has set up the spare bedroom to be a painting room, equipped with tarps and drop cloths galore, and it makes me even happier she’s switching to the long-term rental instead of the bunkhouse when she leaves the luxury cabin.

“So, what’s first, cake or painting?”

She shrugs, “I mean… it’s not like I own this place, we can do both at the same time and get crumbs everywhere if we want to,” she makes a deal of leaning towards me and whispering like I did earlier.

“Oh, I see how it is. Trashing the cabin, eh?”

“Hey, I laid down a drop cloth for painting!” she says in defense, while still chuckling. “I can show you. It’s not spectacular or anything. Like I said, it’s been more for the exercise of getting the brush back into my hand… and it almost feels therapeutic as I go back and forth…” She mimics the action as she says it.

“Della, did you forget my nephew schooled me in art?”

“Okay,” she chuckles and goes to grab the canvas. When she comes back into the room and flips it, I’m speechless because, though I’m not sure what I was expecting, it wasn’t this. She’s not someone just getting back into the groove of things. This is incredible. Whatever the words are for feels like I could walk into the painting… it’s that. It’s not colorful, but there’s texture, and my eyes dart around trying to take in the subtle details. To a small degree, it’s haunting. I can see what she means by the brushstrokes because it appears she glided back and forth repeatedly, layer upon layer… except for the little figure in the bottom right that looks like the shadow of a person running.

“It’s not much, but it felt good…” she starts.

“Della, stop. It’s incredible.”

“No, it’s just something I played with… There are so many ways to make this better, but I was zoned out thinking about things when I was doing it, and I just mindlessly painted.”

“Stop,” I repeat, getting closer to the canvas to see it better. “It’s beautiful. No asterisk. No qualifier. I know shit about art, Del, but this is… I feel this.” My eyes can’t even break away. This fucking woman hasn’t painted in five years and produced this on her victory lap. My God. I wonder what things looked like when she was in her heyday. Painting couldn’t be a depreciating skill.

“Thank you, Jaxon. That means a lot. I loved painting for many reasons, but hearing and seeing how people responded to my art and how it made them feel was one of my favorite parts. So that means more than you know,” she says.

“Well, you nailed it,” I say, bringing my eyes to her. “What other kinds of things have you painted?”

Her eyes dart to a book on the kitchen counter, and I follow her glance. What did I miss when I put the cake down? It just looks like a photo album.