He raises a bag in his hand. “I’ve walked by a couple of times, and you’ve been here staring. So I’m thinking you must like it.”
I blink, not realizing I had been entranced for so long. “It’s good,” I answer, because it is. “I like the shading here.” Then motion to where the blacks and blues merge. “It gives it a nice Impressionist feel.”
With the bag on his wrist, he shoves his hands into his pockets and appraises me as if I should have more to say, which I don’t.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“You don’t like the painting.”
I hike a brow. “I like the painting.”
“No.” The reusable grocery bag crackles. “You don’t. There’s a look people have when they like something, and you don’t have that light.”
Not caring for the interrogation, I break the news. “It’s wrong.”
His head jerks back. “What?”
“It’s wrong,” I repeat and gesture to the middle of the constellation. “It’s missing a star.”
“It’s art. There’s only what the artist intended.”
“True, but I don’t think that’s the case here.”
“Why?”
I motion with my finger where the star should be. “Because if I meant to leave the star out, I would have made this area a shade darker. Just enough that you could only see it if you were searching. I also would have left a small indication that something so important, something so critical to your soul has disappeared. The sole reason a constellation exists is because it’s a sum of its parts. To lose one of those parts...it’s painful and irreversible.”
He’s silent for a moment as he focuses on the area I pointed out. “Maybe you’re wrong on the constellation.”
“My brother’s name was Aires. I couldn’t forget that constellation if I tried.” A heavy weight slams into my chest. I’ve gone too long without remembering my brother. I used to think about him several times a day, and now I haven’t thought of him since last night. I miss him, and what does it mean that he’s not haunting my every thought? Am I forgetting him?
With a sigh that actually causes me pain, the man stalks into the gallery, lifts the painting off the easel and carries it into the back. If I was Noah, I’d drop the f-bomb right now, but I’m not, so a simple crap will suffice. I broke a cardinal rule: keep your mouth shut until you know who the gallery owner and the artist are because they can be hiding in the Trojan horse of a tourist with reusable shopping bags.
So much for the idea of making connections in Vail.
I stand there, staring at the empty slot, wondering if there’s any way to salvage this, like: “I didn’t mean it” or “I smoked crack before I traipsed over here” or “I’ve been kidnapped and a bomb’s been strapped to my chest, and if I don’t trash other people’s paintings, a bus on the highway will explode.”
Yeah, I don’t think he’ll buy it.
I turn and begin the long walk of shame back to the hotel. My cell vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and frown the moment I spot the name of my therapist, Mrs. Collins. It’s like the woman is hardwired to me.
Her: What are your thoughts on moving our Skype visit to tomorrow?
I stop dead in the middle of the cobblestone street, and I rush out an apology when a couple has to separate their hands to move around me. Me: My father told you, didn’t he?
Her: Told me what? :)
Me: That my mom called! And the drill sergeant control freak finally returns. My father lasted two months longer than I thought he would before interfering with my therapy. Me: I thought he was giving me space!
Time. Too much time. Maybe she’s moved on with her life instead of stalking mine. Right as I slip my phone into my pocket, it vibrates again. Her: He wasn’t the one to tell me.
My chin drops to my throat. Noah is a dead man.
* * *
Sitting on the floor of the hotel room, I stare at a blank pad of drawing paper and rub my temples. Oh, God, what have I done? It seemed like a great idea at the time. In fact, it seemed like the most brilliant idea in the course of human history, but I was mad. So mad and Noah is going to freak.
Freak.
Noah’s never been truly angry at me. Aggravated? Yes. Ticked at me? Yep. Strongly annoyed? Heck, yeah. Infuriated? No.
The handle on the door rattles, and a half second later there’s a click when Noah’s key card unlocks the door. I press my hand to my stomach, hoping it will prevent the contents of lunch from making a reappearance.
He steps in and smiles the moment he spots me. It’s a horrible, horrible, sweet smile. The type that says he loves me beyond belief. His hair partly covers his dark eyes, and when his face widens with the grin, I can spot the sexy, rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.
Oh, hot Hades in a snowstorm, he’s happy. I wish I could crawl under the bed and die.
“You okay?” he asks as he heads to his suitcase on the extra double bed. He’s a foot from me, and he’s going to want fifty football fields between us when he opens that bag.
When I don’t answer, he continues, “We’re going to splurge tonight and eat at a restaurant. I meant to take you out in Denver after the showing, but...”
But Denver was the fifth level of hell.
He begins to unzip his suitcase, and I blow out air to stop a dry heave. “Noah,” I say to try to interrupt him, but he doesn’t hear my quiet declaration because he realized he had opened the wrong part.