The Art of My Life (37 page)

Jackson shook his hand. “You’ve got
some serious skills.”

Cal cracked a smile. Dad trying to be
“cool” was always a treat. “Thanks, Dad.”

Starr hugged him. “I couldn’t be
prouder of you, sweetie.”

Cal breathed in the scent of love and
acceptance that had always eluded him.

Mom ran a knuckle under her mascara.
“The Mayor shook my hand and told me how pleased he was that I grew
up to be happy.”

“
And he bought another
painting!” Aly slid an arm around Cal’s waist. “Linda Reader, Katie
Jessup and six other people bought pictures, too.”

Starr’s smile crowned him, a
pontifical blessing.

Jackson pushed the glass door open for
Starr. “See you guys later.”

Aly flitted from his side, and Cal’s
eyes galvanized to his father’s hand sliding over his mother’s
black dress into territory that might warp Cal for life. Geez. What
was with his family tonight?

He coughed and jerked away. His gaze
smacked into Fish and Missy who had walked around like the
two-headed amoeba all evening. No way was he going to get his brain
around his best friend and his kid sister having sex. At least not
anytime soon.

“
I can’t believe you
proposed to Missy the night I thought you were going to ask Aly—and
invited the family to your elopement a week later. I’m still in
shock.”

Fish laughed. “You’ll get over it. I
did.”

“
Yeah, you look like you
did. Nice of you two to come up for air for my show.”

Missy narrowed her eyes at him. “We’ve
only been married five weeks. Your turn’s coming.”

“
December thirtieth.” He
wished it was tonight. “Eighty-nine days.”

Missy rolled her eyes. “Who ever heard
of picking your wedding day before you get engaged? You are so
weird.” She hugged him. “But I’m proud of you, especially for
having the sense to love my BFF.”

Fish threw his lanky arms around him
and smacked his back. “I don’t think I could be any happier if I’d
just won a senate seat. Good job.” Fish let go and looked him in
the eye. “I love you, man.”

Cal swallowed the lump in his throat.
“Yeah, me, too.”

Fish and Missy said their good-byes,
and Cal snagged Aly’s hand.

They circled the gallery turning off
lights, and for an eye blink he was back at his folks’ turning off
the lights Thanksgiving night.

Aly dropped a handful of paper plates
and cups into the garbage.

He stopped Aly in the moonlit room and
turned her toward him. “Thanks for giving me
self-respect.”

Aly scooted onto her desk. “I always
thought it was only a matter of time until people saw your
talent.”

“
No, I mean, you gave me a
reason to succeed. A reason to get sober and stay that way. A
reason to be the man, make choices I feel good about. Thanks for
loving me.” The wonder of Aly’s loving him felt like it would never
wear off.

He ran his hands over her hair, silver
in the moonlight, and the silky fabric of her russet dress, needing
to see her with his tactile sense. His hands traveled down her bare
arms, raising goose bumps, and closed around her fingers. “You’re
so beautiful.” He brushed his lips against hers. “I love
you.”

“
I love you.” Aly’s voice
was breathless.

He groaned, pulled her to the edge of
the desk, claimed her mouth. His hand dropped to her bare leg,
guided by an inner GPS. Heat flowed into his body. He should
bail—get into his car, talk to Aly on his phone as he drove to the
apartment in Mom’s studio.

Aly’s fingers dug into the hair at the
back of his neck.

He’d gone so many years, starving for
her touch....

She pressed in tight against
him.

Who would know?

She would. He would. Aly was… worth…
waiting for. He broke the kiss.

Her chest rose and fell with quick
breaths, riveting his attention.

“
We’re only ever going to
be with each other….” Her voice was barely a whisper in the
dimness.

He took one small, impossible step
away from the heat of her body, the desire in her voice, the extra
inches of leg he hadn’t seen in a very long time, her knees still
slightly parted. Mysteries he would spend a lifetime uncovering. He
wanted to start tonight.

O, God.
He ripped himself away
from her and paced the width of the gallery.

Aly’s whispered words stuck in his
ears and filled up the room, warring with a voice
inside.

He paced, stopped, paced some more
until rational thoughts kick-started in his brain.

He planted his palms on Aly’s desk on
either side of her, careful not to touch skin. “Let me do this one
thing for you, Al. I’m not going to be much of a prize as a
husband—”

“
If you get around to
proposing.”

“
I’ll propose on October
twenty-eighth. You know the plan.”

Aly huffed her impatience.

“
I’m moody, uneducated,
insecure. I have a spotty job history and a record. But I can make
sure I’ve been sober a year before we get married so you have
reason to hope I can stay that way.”

Aly sighed. “I wasn’t worried about
your sobriety at the moment.”

“
I can’t undo sleeping
with Evie or running, but I can help you believe I’ll be faithful
to you for the rest of our lives—if I can show self-control until
we’re married. I’ve waited nine years to have you. I can wait three
more months. It just feels right.”

Aly slid off the desk and her dress
dropped over the bonus inches of leg. Her hands settled on his
shoulders. She leaned her forehead against his. “You’re wrong about
a lot of things. You have an incredible work ethic—what do you
think five hundred pieces of art at age twenty-six says about you?
You went to jail
for your grandparents
—”

“
But I have a problem with
weed—”

“
Which you are beating.
And I’m proud of you.”

His chest swelled with something that
would make him a millionaire if he could capture it in
paint.

“
You’ve made me feel…
cherished. And worthy—to you and in my own head.”

Doing the right thing tonight felt a
thousand times better than every wrong choice he’d ever
made.

He’d escaped, not for the length of a
buzz, but for good, the self-disgust that had hung on him, loose
and misshapen for so long. He stepped into a life where he was
passionately loved—the one that had been there all
along.

Ann Lee Miller earned a BA in creative
writing from Ashland (OH) University and writes full-time in
Phoenix, but left her heart in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, where she
grew up. She loves speaking to young adults and guest lectures on
writing at several Arizona colleges. When she isn’t writing or
muddling through some crisis—real or imagined—you’ll find her
hiking in the Superstition Mountains with her husband or meddling
in her kids’ lives.

Chapter 1

A hot blast of pepperoni-laden air
rolled over Avra as Stavro’s Pizza kitchen door swung shut. She
inched ahead in line for a table with her family.

“
Yep, me and the idiot
sisters are eatin’ fine tonight.”

She swiveled. That voice.

The guy from Humanities 301 thumbed
through change he pulled from the pocket of his cutoffs. Cisco. And
she didn’t shower and change after soccer practice—why?

Her brother’s elbow knocked into her.
“It’s gotta be meat lovers,” Drew’s stuck-in-puberty voice
rasped.

Cisco glanced in her direction. Her
gaze skittered back to her brother.
Please, God, tell me Cisco
didn’t just catch me staring at him!

Her attention drifted to Cisco’s
corkscrew curls that brushed the shoulders of his ancient
Whitey’s Bait & Tackle—Size Counts
T-shirt. The girl
behind the register tracked Cisco from under dark lashes as if she
were having a conversation with the back of his head.

“
I want ham and
pineapple.” Her brother, Kurt, shot an
I’m-slumming-in-Stavro’s-with-my-family look at a couple of girls
behind them.

“
Veggie,” Avra said,
distracted by Cisco’s gaze on her. “Let’s get three.”

Cisco’s forehead crinkled like he was
trying to remember where he’d seen her.

Avra feigned fascination with the
Best Pizza in New Smyrna Beach, Florida,
plaques on the
wall. She frowned at the reflection in the window of her droopy
ponytail and unisex soccer uniform. Beside her reflection in the
glass, the counter girl wore her Stavro’s polo as a second skin.
What was the use? Avra turned toward her family.