After the End (7 page)

“I know.”

I
T
WAS
raining again. Fat drops beat against the window outside my store, sliding snakelike down the glass to join the rush of water along the sidewalk. No one had come into the store in hours. I’d sent Marty, my afternoon cashier, home early. Even with all the lights on, the world looked dim and half-asleep; there was no use in both of us spending our evening staring at the empty aisles.

A sketchbook was open in front of me. White pages mocked me, smooth and open and meaningless. Every time I settled in to put pencil to it, to stroke life from the empty expanse, it was like I froze. Like any story I might coax up from lead and paper was already buried and forgotten.

Irritated with myself, with my inability to do anything useful at all, I flipped the sketchbook closed. Shoving it in a drawer brought me only the smallest bit of satisfaction. Lighting it on fire, perhaps, would have been more fulfilling, but I didn’t think my insurance guy would appreciate the sentiment.

The bell above the door jangled merrily as someone took shelter from the storm. I barely glanced up; the downpour was a roar against the roof, a beast let loose on the deserted streets of the city. I doubted any true customers had braved the weather just to pick up the latest issue of crime fighting antics.

“So, what would you recommend?” Two comics were laid on the counter in front of me as that silk-smooth voice wound its way around me, tugging my stomach into flip-flops. “Bug-bitten superheroes or the gritty antihero with a chip on his shoulder?”

Brady was smiling at me, umbrella dripping on the floor, blond hair in messy waves from the wind. For all his knee-high boots and perfectly fitted leather jacket, he looked strangely at home in my store. Maybe it was just the way he was looking at me, corners of his eyes crinkled, whole expression open, like he’d come out in the sopping rain just for a chance at seeing me. Like that, somehow, would have been worth the trouble.

“What are you doing here?” God, I was an idiot. The words were out before I could catch them and haul them back. It was a valid question, sure, but I definitely hadn’t meant to sound so blunt. Wincing, I reached out, fingers snagging the cuff of his jacket. “Not that it’s, you know,
entirely
unfortunate you stopped by,” I said softly, studying his face. “I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“I thought you needed soup.” He held out a brown paper bag, tightly rolled against the cold outside. “Actually,
I
needed soup. It’s my morning off, so I made up a huge pot of vegetable stew. Only thing to do, really, with it raining cats and oversized dogs out.” While he talked, he pulled out two containers, unscrewing the lids and fishing out spoons from the bag as well. Next followed bread, crusty and still steaming with warmth. My eyes must have gone huge because Brady’s grin turned absolutely smug.

“Oh, yeah. I made bread too. Since I had a little time.”

“You
made
all of this?” I took the offered spoon, leaning over the food to take in a deep breath. A happy little noise escaped me as I closed my eyes, drowning in the spice and the smoky undertone of tomatoes, the yeasty goodness of fresh bread. “This is amazing. You are amazing.”

Brady waved his spoon, dismissing my praise, but he did look extremely satisfied. “After everything was done, I realized the only thing missing was good company. Hence”—he gestured at himself with a slight bow—“me. Here. With you.”

Laughing, I returned the bow, head inclining as I strove to maintain my serious expression. “Well, then. So long as you brought soup, I guess that’s okay, then.”

“
And
bread,” Brady pointed out. “And my fantastic company.”

“That is quite a deal I’m getting. Good thing I didn’t have lunch plans already. I can’t think of anything better.” Picking up the soup, my smile just a little shy, I nodded toward the back room. “Come on. I’ve got just the spot.”

Through the swinging door, through the stockroom, I led Brady back into what had been, once upon a time, my sanctuary. Huge skylights covered the ceiling, the rain here more like a bass drum that pounded an underscore to our movements. There were long wooden tables scored with chalk and paint, white sheets covering canvasses, sketchbooks laid around like scattered leaves. Setting down the soup on a low table, I tugged a dusty sheet off the couch.

“Sorry,” I murmured, wincing a bit. “I, uh, I don’t come in here often.”

The couch wasn’t so bad, though, and Brady sprawled out onto it, that beautiful, calm smile easing the tense knot in my stomach. “It’s perfect.” He wasn’t poking around, wasn’t asking me questions. His gaze had gone over everything, brilliant and quick, much more intelligent than he’d ever say. It wasn’t exactly the Orient Express or anything—the mystery was only as deep as two years’ worth of dust, as charcoal and paints lying abandoned. But he didn’t pry. He just arranged our food and dug around in the bag for more napkins.

“Let me just lock up,” I told him, nervously pleating my T-shirt hem in my fingers. He was just so
there
, so gorgeous and unassuming while taking up far more room on that couch than I’d ever imagined him capable of. Aaron had watched me from there, had sat reading his books or grading papers, sprawled out, green eyes darting to me again and again with so much tenderness it still made me ache. After, in that terrible desert of
after,
the couch had sat empty, waiting.

And now Brady was there.

I bustled to the front of the store again and glanced out the windows at the river of water rushing along the sidewalk to the storm drain. I couldn’t see anyone else around. Brady’s car was parked on the street in front; for all it appeared, he might be the last man left in the city. The streets were nothing more than pounding rain and scattered, drowned spots of color from the leaves.

After locking the door, I grabbed two bottles of water from the small fridge in the stockroom. “Sorry I don’t have anything stronger,” I apologized as I walked back into the studio. “For some reason, drinking on the job is frowned on.”

Brady was standing next to a canvas. The sheet was off, and he was staring at it, head cocked to the side. For a moment, a cold, sour feeling flashed through me, making me quite sure I was going to be sick. In three steps I was at his side, shaking hands tugging the covering back over the paint, hiding it away again.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I was getting rags to wipe off the table, and I bumped it and….” He rubbed a hand through his hair, expression torn between apology and something I couldn’t quite identify. Said rags were in his hand, and the paintbrush that had been sitting on the easel was on the floor. I didn’t doubt him. It was just that no one had seen my work since Aaron.

“I am sorry, Quinn.” Brady was right there, hands on my shoulders, thumbs rubbing against my arms. I realized I’d gone utterly still, gaze caught on the white sheet draped over the picture. “It was beautiful, though. I’m sorry I saw something you weren’t ready for me to, but I have to say, it was amazing.”

Dragging in a breath, I huffed out a sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh. I rubbed my hand across my face and jerked my chin in a nod, eyes still distant. I looked up at him after another beat and nodded once more, surer this time. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just a painting.”

It was. It was just my work, just a part of me that had been frozen and forgotten for so long it hurt to acknowledge it. Like pins and needles when your arm fell asleep. Slowly, heart thundering louder than the rain, I reached out to tug the sheet away again.

The painting was nothing special, I thought. A knight, standing on the roof of a modern building, armor tarnished and bloodstained, sword in hand as the lights of the city winked out around him. It was a piece I’d been preparing for a gallery show, before Aaron had taken a turn for the worse. Before my days had become the sterile, antiseptic scent of the hospital, before my nights had been clinging to his hand, paper-thin skin almost translucent under my touch.

“What is it?” Brady asked, standing next to me, his shoulder warm and solid beside my own.

Sighing, I put the bottles of water down and wrapped my arms around myself. “It’s a panel from one of my graphic novels. I had this character. The Knight. He was displaced from his own time, dropped into modern-day New York, and he became a crime fighter of a sort. The cynicism and horrors he saw gradually wore him down, all the idealism and innocence and purity he’d had before.”

I moved to another canvas, this one propped against a wall. Turning it around, I revealed the Knight with another man, curly haired and bright eyed, their hands clasped, standing trembling on the edge of a kiss. “This was his partner, a mortician named Stuart. They fell in love. Stuart was the Knight’s humanity.”

“What happened to them?” Brady was beside me, crouching down to examine the painting.

“I couldn’t draw them anymore.” I shrugged, eyes dropping. The Knight was red haired and so
alive
, so achingly real. It wasn’t Aaron’s face, no, but he’d been my muse. In all things, but especially in this, he was my muse. “The Knight lost his last flicker of hope and there was nothing more to tell.”

Brady was silent for a moment. He stood, holding the painting up to the light. Strong hands clasped the edges of the canvas so gently. His gaze was intent as he studied my work. “Is this what Annabeth wanted you to show? This series?”

“The Knight’s Heart,” I murmured, lips twisting wryly. “I suppose so. It’s what I was working on, before.”

“And you don’t want to put it up.” He nodded, carefully laying the painting down on one of the long worktables.

“It’s not finished.” I found another one, placing it next to the other two. The Knight fighting, his sword a blur of motion, blood and dirt clinging to him. Stuart was beside him, glory and love. “The series. It’s not done. And I can’t….” I shook my head, hands in my pockets, staring down at the paintings. “I don’t know the person who painted these. I can’t feel the story anymore. Every time I try to draw, it ends up as nothing. Meaningless.”

After a moment, Brady reached out, drawing me into his embrace. I hadn’t realized how tensely I was holding myself until his arms circled me, until I sagged into him. “Then you need to find a new story to tell,” he murmured, rubbing his hand gently up and down my back.

I tried to laugh because he made it sound so easy. Instead I just wound up tucking my head in under his chin, reaching slowly, so achingly slowly, up to cling to his jacket. “Maybe,” I agreed, softly. It wasn’t easy. I knew that. But somehow, the gentle faith he seemed to have in me made it sound possible.

After a few moments, Brady tutted over the dust on my shirt. He fussed with my hair and led me back to the couch. We sat, knees pressed together, and Brady handed me my soup.

It was utterly delicious. Just enough tang and bite to chase away the chill, rich with vegetables and little pops of soft pasta. “Brady,” I murmured, surprised, spoon dipping in again and again. “This is incredible. I can’t believe you
made
this.”

“Try the bread” was his only response as he nudged a piece closer to me, but there was a pleased curve to his lips that warmed me more than even the soup.

The bread was light, chewy, and fantastic. I actually made an obscene little noise as I swallowed, melted butter leaving behind a salty sweet tang against my tongue. “My God,” I muttered, eagerly taking another bite. “This is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in, like, ever.”

The sound of Brady’s laugh was a thrilling baritone, bouncing off the walls, dancing with the patter of the rain. “Normally, I’d take that as a challenge,” he teased me, eyes crinkling at the corners mischievously. “But since it’s a compliment to the chef, I’ll just say thank you.”

I rolled my eyes, too busy stuffing my face to quip back. “Where did you learn this?” Perhaps soup was dreadfully easy, and perhaps the bread was child’s play to him, but to someone who lived out of cans and knew the corner deli staff on a first-name basis, it was wizardry.

“Catering,” he shrugged. “And I’ve always liked to cook. Middle kid of three sisters, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. My mom was from a big Italian family, my dad was Swedish, so food is pretty much how we show emotions. No matter what’s going on, if you’re happy or sad or in love, you cook. There’s a meal for all occasions.”

He was watching me with a strange intensity, a seriousness behind the smile that made my stomach go into knots. I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt like I should. Like if I’d just turn my head, I’d catch the whole of it from the corner of my eye. “What’s this meal mean?” I asked, searching his face. Wondering what it was I was missing.

But just like that, the moment was gone. Brady smiled at me and leaned back in the couch, legs akimbo, soup finished. “It’s raining outside and I wanted to see you,” he said with an elegant lift of his shoulders. “Soup is very good for that.”

I agreed with a happy murmur, chasing the last green bean around the bottom of my bowl before I joined him in a sprawl. His arm stole around me, my head listed toward his shoulder, and the rain kept up its symphony above us. It was warm there, with him, side to side. I laid my hand on his leg and he found my fingers with his own. “Thank you,” I murmured, rubbing my cheek absently against him.

“For the food?” he asked, so softly, so
tenderly,
it made me ache to hear it.

“Not just for the food,” I admitted, tilting my head back to look at him. He smiled at me, and my lips curved upward in reply.

For a long time, we just sat like that. On the couch that was no longer Aaron’s, in the room that was no longer my haven. For the first time, though, new memories seemed to overtake the ghosts. Instead of only picturing Aaron there, I now thought of the sweet tang of the tomatoes, the salty chewiness of the buttered bread, the way my body seemed to melt into Brady’s side, the warmth of his smile. Instead of canvases telling a story I no longer knew, there was the hesitant sprout of something different. Of the idea of an idea. Of the hope of something new.