Everything Between Us (33 page)

I step away from it quickly. “I’m sorry.” I look over my shoulder to see him propped on an elbow, watching me. There’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite translate.

“It’s all right. I’m just …” He falls back onto the pillow and rubs at his face. “Not sure if it’s good.”

I frown. “Really?”

“Mmm,” he says. “I’ve never tried anything like this.”

“You’ve used this technique before.”

His hands fall away and he turns his head. “Yeah, but I’ve never actually …” He chuckles. “You’re going to make me say it.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I can’t make you say anything.”

He laughs outright at that and sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist. “Come here.”

I walk slowly toward the bed.
Very
slowly. I’m waiting for him to say what he doesn’t want to say.

His lips twitch. “The guys across the street will thank me for having a beautiful naked woman standing in front of my windows like that.”

I squeak and run to the bed, where he catches me and covers me with the sheet. He kisses my forehead. “I’m kidding. That building is empty.”

I start to giggle as he pokes at my ribs, and when I snort, his chest trembles with laughter and he buries his face in my neck.

“You’re trying to make me forget you were going to say something,” I whisper when I finally catch my breath.

He groans. “Why are you always busting my balls?”

“Because it continues to be thoroughly enjoyable,” I say, threading my fingers into his hair. “Now tell me.”

Without raising his head, he says, “I’ve never tried to express an actual emotion in a painting. Not something that was part of me, anyway.”

My thoughts wander back to his other paintings, all color, style, flash, mess, slick, rough, drawing the eye, putting on a great show. Brazen, playful, carefree, always delivered with a sly wink. “Why?”

He sighs, his breath warm against my neck. “Because if I did that and people thought it was stupid … Now, if they look at what I’ve done and think it’s stupid, I can walk away and be fine. It doesn’t touch me. Because it’s not really
me
.”

“But if you really put yourself into a painting, if you really showed who you are, you’ll be hurt if people don’t like it, or don’t think it’s worthy.”

He’s quiet, his hair tickling my jaw, his face hidden from view. I can feel his heart thundering against my chest.

“You’re protecting yourself,” I say into his ear. Heather would say he’s been avoiding the thing he fears, which only makes it more powerful. “You’ve been hiding all this time behind this playful mask, because you’re afraid that if you’re honest, it won’t be good enough.”

He tucks his head harder against me, like he’s hiding right now, using me for shelter.

“I can see right through you, Daniel,” I breathe, stroking his hair. “I see you even when you hide.”

He’s still for a moment, and then he rises onto his elbow, searching my face with his deep blue gaze. “And do you like what you see?” he asks in a hushed voice.

His expression makes my heart hurt. What I see: he really is playful, and irreverent, and challenging, and smart. All those things in his paintings are part of him. He just also happens to be patient, and vulnerable, and loving, and tender, and, at the moment, scared.

I lay my palm on his cheek. “No, I don’t like what I see.” He rocks back a little like I’ve punched him in the chest, so I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and draw him toward me. “Daniel, I
love
it.”

Chapter Twenty-seven: Daniel

She was quiet when she left this morning, kissed me goodbye and left me naked and exhausted, flat on my back to stare at the ceiling.

Today is the first of April. She didn’t mention it, but I’ve had this day seared on my brain ever since she told me about Liza’s ultimatum. I haven’t asked Stella what she’s thinking about it. I was hoping she’d confide in Romy or her therapist, because listening to Stella talk about leaving—especially when I know it’s not what she really wants—is more than I can handle.

I’m going to have to handle it now, though, because we’re out of time. Not completely, but this is the day the hourglass turns and the sands start falling. We’ll have the summer. I should be okay with that. Hell, I’ve never been with anyone for longer than a few months, and that’s only if “with” means exclusively fucking. Four months is like an eternity. Except … I’ve never experienced anything like I’ve had with Stella, where until last night, we hadn’t had sex but the one time, and the rest of it has been more about having my protective layers peeled off one by one. That and becoming more attached to her with each day that passes.

I get up and go for a run, then lift weights at the gym, burning off some of the restless uneasiness churning inside me. I know she’s going to make her decision today. She has to. Liza’s basically threatened to make life really unpleasant for Stella if she doesn’t toe the line, and Stella’s only twenty. How can she go up against that kind of pressure when she’s never been anything but dependent on her folks? I run home from the gym, sweating and aching, and take a long, cold shower.

Without really thinking about what I’m doing, I drive to my parents’ house. My mom is out front when I pull into the drive, and I frown as I get out of the car. She’s got a wheelbarrow of fertilizer next to her, and she’s on her knees.

“What the heck are you doing?” I ask her.

She pushes the brim of her gardening hat higher on her forehead. “I’m planting my summer bulbs and annuals, and fertilizing and pruning my trees, Daniel. They don’t prune themselves.”

“Where’s Dad?”

She rolls her eyes. “In the house grumbling about how I’m doing too much.”

“Because you
are
doing too much.”

She sits back on her heels. “I’m not starting chemo until next week. Do you expect me to lie around before I even get sick?”

“Yeah, kind of.” I look around the yard. “Can I help at least?”

“Of course. You can go around back and bring all the bags of mulch out.”

I roll up my sleeves and get to work, sweat trickling down my back as I do the heavy lifting. But it feels good, working side by side with my mom, seeing her looking better than she has in a while, even though I know it won’t last. Around three, my phone rings, and I wipe my hand on my pants and pull my phone out. My heart stops—it’s Stella. Mom sees my expression and her brow furrows.

“Stella?”

“Daniel,” she says, sounding breathless. “Are you home? I want to talk to you about something.”

My stomach drops. Here we go. “I’m not—I’m at my parents’ house.”

“She can come over,” my mom calls out, loud enough for Stella to hear. “I’ll make dinner.”

“She can’t—” I begin.

“I can,” says Stella. “Text me the address?”

“You don’t have to,” I say. What the hell. I don’t want to have this conversation with her here. But now my mom is getting to her feet, looking all excited. Fuck. “Okay, but … okay.”

I hang up and text her the address, telling myself it’s going to be fine. I knew this was going to happen. And I know she loves me. I believe it. I see it. I trust her. So all of this is better than it was last night, when I didn’t know exactly how she felt. Now it’s not a matter of losing her completely.

It’s a matter of losing her by degrees.

I shove my phone back in my pocket. My mother strokes my arm. “Did I overstep?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, but with a smile, because it’s impossible to be mad at her. “That was pretty sneaky.”

“I’d rather meet her when I have all my hair, Daniel.”

I put my arm over her shoulders. “You’ll always be beautiful.” I kiss her forehead. “She’s going to break my heart, Mom. I can feel it coming.”

She puts her arm around my waist. “You’ve never let a girl do that to you. I guess that means it’s serious.”

“It might have been. She’s leaving. Going back to college. Her future’s all mapped out, and if her parents have their way, it won’t include me.”

Mom kisses my shoulder. “They don’t know anything about you, Daniel. If they did, they’d think differently.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, my throat tight. I hug her and head off for a shower, then change into some of my old clothes. I’m calmer by the time I come out … until I see Stella and my mom sitting on the couch, looking through my baby pictures. Stella’s dark eyes are flashing with mischief.

I turn to my mom. “You’re showing her the pictures of me in the bathtub, aren’t you?”

My mom can’t conceal her grin as she nods. “Can you blame me?”

A smile flickers on Stella’s lips as she touches one of the pictures and says, “You had the roundest little cheeks.”

I start to laugh, because I know which cheeks she’s talking about. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was on Main Street.” Which is only a few miles from here. Good God. She’s probably been here for nearly twenty minutes, talking with my mom about who-knows-what.

My mom gets to her feet. “I’m going to start the roast.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Stella says, like they’ve arranged it. My mom pats her on the shoulder and heads for the kitchen.

I sink onto the couch next to Stella, who’s dressed up, fitted slacks and a sweater. She looks expensive, though she also has a dusting of flour on her pants.  My heart twists. “How was your lunch?”

“It was great,” she says. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

She nods. “The food was good. The company was …” She bows her head and reaches for my hand. “It’s April first.”

“I know.”

“And I had to make my decision.”

“I know that, too, Stella. It’s all right.”

She squeezes my hand. “I hope so. I’m really scared.”

I wind a lock of her hair around my finger. “You’ll do great. You’re strong enough to handle anything.”

“I’d like to believe that. This is going to be hard, though.”

For both of us. “I’ll miss you,” I blurt, then grit my teeth.

Stella raises her head. “Why?”

“Because I love you?” Why is she making me explain this? Doesn’t she feel the same way? “I mean, I know we have the summer, but—”

“I’m not going back to Wellesley, Daniel.”

I swallow. “You’re not?”

“No. You were right—it’s never really been what I wanted. I think I just needed to jump the rails to find the track I really wanted to be on.”

“And what track is that?”

She smiles. “I filed my application for Becker’s culinary arts program this morning.”

“Like, cooking?”

“Yes, but I can specialize in baking and pastry arts after the first year.”

She did it. She really did it. And I can’t think of anything more perfect for her.

“I think you’ll be amazing,” I say, clearing my throat when my voice catches. “You’re staying?”

“I’m staying.”

“How did Liza take it?”

Her expression falls. “I bet you can guess,” she says quietly. “We almost got asked to leave the restaurant because she was yelling.”

What a bitch.
“She cut you off, didn’t she?”

Stella nods. “I knew she would. I have a savings account. Enough to pay my first semester’s tuition. But it won’t be enough.” She meets my eyes. “So I applied for a job.”

I look down at the flour on her pants. “At Emanuelle’s?”

Her expression brightens. “Sam set up an interview for me—he got a job at a bakery in Chicago, and Emanuelle needs an assistant.” She’s practically bouncing in her seat. “I made them some cinnamon palmiers, and she offered me a job on the spot. I start Monday.”

“I’m in awe of you, Stella.” I knew she was strong, but I never thought she’d risk this much. And it means she’ll be here. She’s not leaving. I tip her head up and stroke her cheek. “You did it.”

“I did,” she says. “But I never could have if you hadn’t come into my life.” She looks so excited, like she’s got it all worked out and can’t wait to start this next adventure. I’ve never seen her look more beautiful. “And now I have to go help your Mom,” she says, grinning. “I’m making the biscuits.”

I sit through dinner, watching Stella talk to my parents, who seem to love her almost as much as I do. My dad eats four biscuits and reaches for a fifth, but my mom slaps it out of his hand—and then takes it for herself. Stella’s practically glowing, and as I watch her, I realize how much lighter she looks, like this huge weight has been taken off her shoulders. She was so brave to risk this. But then, Stella is brave. She’s faced each one of her fears head-on. She makes
me
want to be brave.

When we finish up, my dad and I wash the dishes while Stella chats in the dining room with my mom, and when it’s time for us to go, my mom pulls me aside. “I like her,” she whispers.

“That’s obvious,” I say with a chuckle. “And I’m glad. I like her, too.”

“It’s more than that.”

I nod. “It is.”

“And she sees right through you. I can tell.”

“She does.” But it makes me smile. “And she likes what she sees.” She
loves
what she sees. I’ll never forget that moment, not if I live a thousand years.

I kiss my mom goodbye, hug my dad, and follow Stella back to town. We head up the stairs to my apartment, and my heart starts to beat a little faster. “I was wondering,” I say, pulling her jacket from her shoulders and hanging it over the back of a chair, “if you’d consider helping me finish my painting.”

She turns to me, surprise etched across her face. “Me?” She starts to laugh. “You’ve seen me sketch.”

“I think we work well together.”

Her expression brightens. “Me, too.” She looks down at her slacks and sweater, which probably cost more than a month’s rent. “Can I change?”

“Can I watch?”

She laughs. “If you want. Can you loan me a shirt?”

“Do you really need a shirt?” But I take her hand and lead her toward my easel, stopping at my chest of drawers to grab her a t-shirt. I kiss her, sliding my hands up her ribs and stripping the sweater off, then help her into the shirt. “That’s going to come off in a little while.”

“I’m counting on it,” she says quietly, but I hear the vibrations of her voice all the way down to my toes.