This Life and All the Rest (Next Life Duet Book 2) by Brit Benson

Author:Brit Benson [Benson, Brit]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brit Benson Books
Published: 2022-11-14T16:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN

I leave the hospital shortly after Claire arrives.

The doctors told us not to overwhelm Trent, and not to stay too long. He needs his rest, and they still have to monitor him.

I head back to the rec center and get some work done. July 4th is next week, and we have a whole day of activities planned for the kids. My heart might be elsewhere, but my mind needs to make sure this shit runs smoothly.

At five, I check in on the evening classes, then make my way slowly up the stairs. I don’t know for sure if she’ll still be here, but I’m on edge anyway.

I twist the knob to find the door locked, so I take out my key and let myself in quietly. I stand by the door, holding my breath, until I can hear the music coming from the studio.

She’s here.

I take my shoes off, walk into my room and change into my throwing clothes, then take a leap of faith. I walk slowly to the studio door and knock twice.

“Come in,” Lennon calls, so I push open the door and step inside.

She’s sitting at my drawing table, and the sight makes my throat go dry.

There’s a large piece of watercolor paper covering the table, her paints and brushes are set up in the exact way I remember them from all those years ago, and Fleetwood Mac is playing on the speakers. She looks perfect here. She looks like she belongs here.

But what really gets me, what strikes me completely dumb, is that her hair is in a braid.

She catches me looking at it, and she winces. She reaches up and fingers the end of it.

“It’s the best way to wear it when I’m painting,” she says. “I hope it’s okay that I’m still here. I lost track of time.”

“Are you feeling better?” I ask, and she gives me a small smile.

“I am. Thank you for letting me use your studio.”

God, this conversation is so stilted and awkward. It’s torture. She can barely look at me.

“Commission?” I nod to the painting she’s been working on.

“No,” she says with a hollow laugh. “Therapy.”

I nod because I get it. And for a split second, she flicks her eyes toward me, and we’re both caught in the beam of the other’s attention.

A freeze frame of this moment would suggest that everything was perfect. Nothing bad has ever happened in the reality that these smiles exist.

After a few breaths, just before it gets too intimate, she looks away, breaking eye contact and sitting up straighter in her chair.

“I should probably get going,” she says, reaching for something on the floor.

“You don’t have to,” I say quickly. “I was going to throw. You can stay if you don’t mind.”

The pause is tense, charged, as she thinks it over. She almost declines twice, before opening her mouth and saying, “okay.”

I move to my wheel and start my set-up. I try not to look at her. I try to give her some privacy, but my eyes have always been drawn to her.

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