by Lexy Timms
I wasn’t ready to give him the answer.
“I mean, that’s cool, I guess,” he said. “I just don’t get why they hate you.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” I said.
“Yes, it does. They’re your parents. They’re supposed to love you.”
“Yeah, and they’re supposed to attend memorial services, be reminded of the best in their family, and bury their dead. But they don’t do any of that shit. Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”
“Take it you had a rousing conversation with them?” he asked.
“Look. It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m blue-collar, you’re blue-collar, and to them, that shit’s beneath their reputation. They’ll always despise us for that, so I stay out of their way.”
“I mean, I don’t like your parents any more than you do, but don’t completely write them off. They lost a son, dude. In a bullshit and terrible way. They’re hurting, too, even if they don’t show it like you do sometimes.”
“They didn’t even come to the burial. They’ve been to none of the memorials. Every time I bring them up, you know what they call him?”
“What?” he asked.
“‘Nothing more than a junkie. Like a junkie was all he ever was.”
“Just don’t write them off completely. Don’t become like them,” he said.
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I said, murmuring.
“I’d like to think your family tree sits on a hill,” he said, grinning.
“Am I obsessing over my brother?”
It was a valid question. He’d been gone for years. Five, to be exact. That was plenty enough time to push past all this and to move on and release the anger and resentment I was carrying. But I hadn’t.
At least, I didn’t feel I had.
“We just had the remembrance or whatever. Give yourself some time, dude. You’re too hard on yourself.”
I nodded and looked out the window toward the abandoned building across the street. I took a sip of my milkshake as my burger and fries were set in front of me. I saw a movement in the window and paused. A little purple flutter that kept walking back and forth. I felt my heart seize in my chest, the blood rushing through my ears.
Was that her?
Was that the purple-haired woman from the bar?
But as quickly as I’d seen it, the color vanished. No shadows were walking around in the building, and I slowly sat back into my chair. Now I was really losing it. Seeing things that weren’t there. Imagining people walking around in some abandoned building. I had to find a way to decompress from all these emotions. I had to find a way to get a decent night’s sleep.
I had to fucking get ahold of myself.
Chapter 6
Hailey
It had been a week since I’d talked with my sister. She drew up the documents, and we’d gotten them signed, eating at the diner across the street. They had a fabulous milkshake that was to die for, and I ended up getting another one to go before I headed back over to the building. I showed her around for a bit, telling her all my plans while she nodded and smiled, but the dust soon got to her, and she had to leave.
She told me she would get the paperwork filed and send over the official copies once everything went through.
I’d spent the past few days trying to clean it up. I swept out all the dust, splashing water everywhere as I tried to capture it all. I scrubbed the walls and hoisted out the trash, peeling back wilted sheetrock whenever it was necessary. I had to purchase goggles and something to cover my face while I was doing everything, but it was obvious I would need to call one of those contractors back. There were some structural damage and electrical issues that needed some serious updating, and I didn’t have nearly the type of skills needed to tackle these problems.
Sweat trickled down the back of my neck as I sighed. I was really hoping I could forego hiring contractors and do this myself. I could repair and replace anything topical, but plumbing and electrical issues I knew nothing about. I figured I’d just have to flip a switch on a circuit breaker somewhere and turn on a massive nozzle for the water, but that most certainly was not the case here.
If I even attempted to turn these lights on, the whole place might go up in flames.
Even though the building itself was incredibly dilapidated, there was a weatherproofed little storage space out back. It looked like a rough addition someone that owned a bar might’ve put up, a place to keep extra boxes of things without the risk of the weather ruining everything. I decided to unload things I’d had delivered from my storage unit. Some paintings, some extra supplies I’d eventually sell, new brushes, and things like that. Storing it all here in this little extra shed would reduce my monthly costs by allowing me to close down that storage unit, so I was more than willing to break the sweat.
When I finally rid the building of the last speck of dust and the last piece of broken glass, I sat back and surveyed the area. I was going to need a great deal of help getting this thing up and running in time. I was giving myself two to three months to get it open and four months before I was profitable. Sweat made the fabric of my shirt cling to my body, and I realized I could use a nice shower.
Or a dip in the ocean across the road.
Just as I turned to the door, a knock resounded. It made me jump. Who would be knocking on the door to this old place? The mental to-do list slowly slipped from my mind as I swung the door open, and nothing I could’ve done would’ve prepared me for who was standing on the other side.
I recognized him instantly, and for a brief moment, I thought he knew me as well.
His eyes studied my hair, the massive purple sensation that was glaringly obvious about my physical features. I looked down at his tattoos, getting a closer look at the shining geometric colors that donned his left arm. I couldn’t help staring at it, my eyes flickering over all the colors and patterns. It was more intricate than I could’ve ever imagined, and I simply couldn’t pull my attention from it.
His voice, however, startled me from my trance.
“Designed it myself,” he said.
“You drew that?”
“Yep.”
“What about the coloring? The shading?” I asked.
“Did that, too,” he said.
“It’s ... mesmerizing.”
Why in the world was this man knocking on my door? Out of all the people in San Diego who could’ve possibly been curious about what I was doing, it was a little crazy it would be Bryan.
John’s brother.
I was worried about the recognition on his face. His eyes were dark but carried a sort of kindness that was reminiscent of his brother. I could feel his gaze dancing along me, drinking me in as we stood in the doorway. Had he seen me at the memorial? Was he going to ask me why I was there?
Was he about to ask me how I knew his brother?
“Odd question,” he said, “but were you at a memorial service for a man named John McBride a week or so ago?”
“No,” I said, lying. “Can’t say I was. Though I’m sorry for your loss.”
I couldn’t tell him. Not now. Not here while he was standing in some shoddy old shack. I had to accomplish my goal, and anything that derailed me from that had to be seen as a detriment. I’d worked hard to get to where I was and to have the ability to showcase beauty that had been smothered by the world’s darkness.
I couldn’t allow a man with wonderful tattoos and smoldering eyes to distract me from that goal because I owed it to too many people not to get sidetracked.
I saw the look of surprise roll over his features at my answer, and part of me wondered if he knew I was lying. Just the small exchange told me he’d seen me there, and I cursed myself for sitting at the bar. I should’ve stood off in the corner. I could’ve stayed in the shadows somewhere.
Hell, I probably shouldn’t have gone at all.
“I’m Bryan McBride,” he said as he held out his hand.
“Hailey Ryan,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you. A
s you can see, I’m not nearly open for business yet.”
“I figured by the outer appearance.”
“Then you don’t mind me asking why you’ve come knocking on my rickety door?” I asked.
“Honestly? I was just curious. I’m at the diner across the road about once a week, and I was getting curious as to who bought this place.”
“Guilty as charged. I actually tried the diner a couple days ago. They have tremendous—”
“Milkshakes?” he asked.
“Yes. Oh my gosh, they’re splendid. And their whipped creams have different flavors.”
“I love the pistachio whipped cream,” he said.
“Oh, I’m a sucker for anything banana,” I said.
We laughed lightly for a little bit, reveling in the tidbit of information we had in common. His eyes seemed to sparkle with the smile that rolled across his features, and it was a lot like the sparkle in his brother’s eyes whenever John would wipe his paintbrush across a canvas.
I felt a pang of guilt boiling in my stomach as Bryan’s voice ripped me from my trance.
“What are you building here? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“An art gallery,” I said.
“An art gallery.” He nodded as he glanced around the room. “I could see it.”
“Oh, you can, huh?” I asked.
“Well, I’m an architect by trade, and I own a construction company here in town, so part of me was interested in what the new owner was turning this into.”
“Wait, you do construction?” I asked.
“I do,” he said, grinning.
“Come here.”
I took his hand and yanked him into the middle of the room. Finally, someone with some knowledge of the subject I could use to bounce my ideas off of.
“All right, so here’s my vision,” I began. “Floor tiles the color of onyx and cream-colored walls. The canvases that will be showcased on the walls for sale will be encased in bird's-eye maple.”
“Bird’s-eye maple?” he asked.
“Yep. I want to have other frames in different types of wood, though. All different sizes eventually. Purpleheart, Cocobolo, East Indian Rosewood, and so on.”
“Sounds beautiful,” he said.
The man couldn’t have paid me a better compliment if he had actually tried.
“They’ll line both sides of the shop with one or two, in particular, being displayed without a frame in the window.”
“You’ll have to build a platform into the wall that can house the displays,” he said. “And from the looks of the sheetrock you’ve torn away, you’ll need some seriously updated electrical as well as some help fixing insulation. I would think the humidity from the ocean would warp your paintings if the place isn’t properly insulated.”
“Yes, it would.” I actually hadn’t thought about that, but it was a good idea. I was interested in hiring someone who had good ideas, especially someone who could find little things like that that hadn’t crossed my mind yet.
“The register will be here in the back, and this little alcove area will be curtained off.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Well, I don't want people seeing a place they pay at when they first walk into the gallery. That’s tacky to me. Eventually, I want to use the broad space in the middle for art classes and therapy.”
“Therapy?” he asked.
Shit. I’d run my mouth for too long.
“I’ve lived in various places, and every time I go to a new place, I always seem to attract people who need help. So, I started using the one thing I knew I was good at. I started teaching people how to paint and draw, and all they had to do was show up.”
“They didn’t pay you for it?” he asked.
“Most couldn’t. They were homeless or maybe just hitting the streets. Some were getting clean from drugs and others were fresh out of prison.”
“Sounds a bit dangerous,” he said.
“I had faith in them. They all had this beauty they wanted to eject into the world, but the darkness had a way of swallowing them whole. I kept their paintings in the hopes that I could display them one day. Sell them to people. Inject the beauty they wanted to share with the world into the lives of others so the legacies they left behind weren’t so bleak.”
His gaze was fixed on me, and I started wondering if I’d said too much. I could sense every movement of his eyes along my body, and I wanted to know what he was thinking. Did he think my idea sounded crazy? I didn’t know why I was so drawn to his opinion, but the more he continued to stare at me the more anxious I became.
“Wanna see some of their paintings?” I asked breathlessly.
“Sure,” he said.
I walked him through the building, watching his head darting around. He was clocking things, probably running numbers through his mind. We pushed out the back door and went over to the storage area where I pulled it open and grabbed the first painting I could grab.
My heart leaped into my throat when I realized it was one of John’s.
Please don’t turn it over. Please don’t turn it over.
He ran his fingertips over the painting in front of him. It was a cabin John had painted. A detailed log cabin with trees growing up around it and the wind kicking up the leaves from the ground. There was a car, something akin to a Jeep, sitting off to the side, and I could tell Bryan was losing himself in it.
“This is really good,” he said. “Was this done by one of your therapy students?”
“It was,” I said. “He had so much beauty to give. I can’t bring myself to leave these behind. An art gallery seemed like a good idea since it’s always been a dream of mine anyway.”
“I love art. Always have.”
“I got the hint from the tattoo you claim to have drawn and colored yourself,” I said.
“I mean I didn’t tattoo it myself, but I did design it myself.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s still art,” I said as I plucked the painting from his fingertips.
“I drew a lot as a kid. The ocean. The waves. Deserted buildings that peppered the coast. Now it’s just blueprints and construction plans.”
“Sounds absolutely thrilling,” I said, giggling. “Do you draw much anymore?”
“Not for pleasure,” he said. “All for business now.”
“Yep. Careers have a way of doing that to people.” Anna immediately came to mind while he talked. The life and passion had been drained from her because of establishing a so-called sensible career. Jobs seemed to do that to people, suck their goals and passions and wants from their lives.
“That’s what I want to do, you know,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“Breathe life back into those who have had it sucked out of them. I want to touch people with art and show them that having passions and aspirations beyond a paycheck aren’t only good but are required to live a balanced like. Expressing the soul through art is like feeling an experience. It brings a beauty to darkness that this world so desperately needs, and that’s what I want to be.”
“Like a beacon at sea guiding the sailors home,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“How about this?” he asked. “I’ve been looking at the place while you were talking. I’m assuming you’ve gotten some estimates from other contractors around town?”
“Yes, but I haven’t called anyone back yet.”
“Don’t. Let me get you a free estimate for what it’ll take to get this place looking like how you want it to look. Most contractors will just fix the body and then leave the interior design to someone else. I’ll bring you both,” he said.
“Really? You’d be willing to do that?”
“For someone who has the passion and purpose you do for opening this gallery? In a heartbeat,” he said.
“All right. Well, how do I get ahold of you?” I asked.
“Let me give you my card. It’s got my work and cell number on there. I’ll write yours down, so I can call you to
morrow with the numbers, and we can figure out what your next move is from there.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. McBride.”
“Nope. Bryan. All the way,” he said, grinning.
“Bryan. I can do that. You ready for my number?”
“Shoot.”
I rattled it off to him as I stuck his card in the back pocket of my paint-splattered jeans. I was excited to be talking numbers and plans with someone who was actually interested in my dream, my vision, and why I was opening this place to begin with. I shut the storage door and walked him back through the building, letting him take one last in-depth look before I showed him out the door. Crossing my arms over my chest, I saw him run across the road and hop into a truck.
My gosh, he even walked like his brother.
Chapter 7
Bryan
I could feel her skin against the palm of my hand. She nuzzled into me, her eyes fluttering closed as my thumb graced the apple of her cheek. Her delicate hands wrapped around my wrists and ran up my arms. Then, her hands pressed into my chest.
I pulled her close to me. The woman with the purple hair. Hailey Ryan and her art gallery. We swayed as the moonlight streamed through the windows while the onyx floor fluttered underneath our feet. It rolled and undulated, stumbling our bodies closer and closer to one another’s as a small giggle peeled from between her lips, those delicate lips that smiled in a way that sparkled in her eyes.
Her hips swayed against mine as we danced in front of the cabin. The sunlight was streaming through the thicket of trees as smoke billowed from the chimney of the cabin. Her forehead pressed into my shoulder, and her nose caressing the exposed skin of the crook of my neck.
Her hot breath tickled my skin, disturbing the smooth tattoos on my arm with the goosebumps she pulled from my body.
I wrapped my arms around her, cloaked her in my strength as she nuzzled into me. We were on the beach as the waves crashed against the shore, her light green eyes shining with the beauty of the sunset. My hands raced along her back, feeling every inch of her underneath my fingertips as we swayed.
Moved.
Rocked.
Like the ocean against the rocks as they held steady and firm.
