Truth in Watercolors (Truth Series Book 2) (34 page)

“Meet you at the truck.” I nodded and turned from her silently vowing this wasn’t it for us. I was going to make this right.

“That was a lie.” I heard August speak to her.

“I don’t want to hear it, August. I want to know it,” she said back, and I swore my feet kicked up in their steps.
Challenge accepted.

“T
hese are really something,” my mom said holding up one of my paintings.

“They’re okay,” I said still not satisfied with using so few colors, and I probably never would be.

“Sweetheart,” she rolled up the picture I’d painted for fun of a dog’s paw smashing into the sand at the dog beach and put it into a box, “clearly they are more than okay. That hotel bigwig bought a few, and the gallery extended your showing for another month. That’s not okay. My little girl is brilliant.”

I smiled at her and rolled the packing tape across the box I’d just filled. Brilliant was a stretch, but I had to admit I was pretty proud of myself. It was a week after the bachelorette party that I got the phone call. I knew that because it was the first day I had left the house since Wes had broken my heart. It was also the day I gave up on waiting for him to call or come by.

Bia called that day saying the owner of The Bay purchased three of my paintings. It might not sound like a lot, but I’d just become the richest I’d ever been. I finally felt validated. Being colorblind could not, and would not, stop me from creating art people wanted to both see and purchase. It was after that phone call that I packed my Wes portfolio into the car and took it down to the gallery to ask about a showing. Bia instantly approved it, and after a month of increased foot traffic through my section of the gallery, she extended the showing.

The small purchase the owner of The Bay made had given me enough money for the first two months’ rent on an apartment in Mission Bay. It was a tiny place, but it was all mine. The complex was even just minutes away from SYC where I was officially employed as the new art director. Not long after August had the reopening, his funding came through for an art program.

So much had changed in such a short amount of time, all positive changes. I should be optimistic about the forward momentum my life had suddenly taken, but I couldn’t help feeling saddened that I wasn’t sharing it with the one person who helped me get here.

“How have you been feeling lately?” My mom eyed me as she stacked one box on top of another. When they’d returned from their Mexico trip and saw my heartbreak covering the house in tissues and dirty dishes, she stayed home with me until I got back on my feet again.

“Better.” I shrugged a shoulder and folded up a new box. It was a little true anyway. I mean, I was exiting the house and eating normally again. I still found myself crying some nights as I fell asleep or letting tears fall in the shower, but I didn’t sit in the sadness for much longer than those moments.

“You know sweetie, I really do believe this will be one of his biggest regrets in his life.” My mom sat down on the bed next to me, obviously wanting to talk, but I kept myself busy filling boxes.

“Sucks for him,” I said tossing my sketchbook in quickly avoiding its memories.

“Not if he realizes soon enough that he made a mistake. Some people know immediately, but others, unfortunately, can’t see where they went wrong until much later in life, if ever.”

“And what if he sees that he’s made a mistake?” I asked taping up another box.

“You forgive him.”

“And what if he never realizes he messed up?” I blew a piece of hair from my eyes and sat on the bed next to her.

“You still forgive him.” She took the tape gun from my hands and set it aside.

“That’s dumb, Mom,” I told her, and she laughed.

“It’s not dumb. You forgive him regardless for yourself so you can move on to whatever direction your life goes. Whether it’s with him or not.”

I huffed out a sigh and looked around my room. What once was filled with the emptiness of the color white truly was empty now. If I hadn’t had been so fearful, I wonder if I ever would have been brave enough to add some color to the space even if only in one I could see? I guess that might turn out to be one of my regrets, spending years hiding myself behind insecurity rather than living in uniqueness.

“Do you have any regrets, Mom?” I asked her pulling a pillow onto my lap.

“So many.” She laughed and got a far-off look in her eyes. “I regret the time I quit flag team in high school to play soccer so I could be around the boys more.”

“Oh, Mom.” I scrunched my face in disgusted amusement.

“I know.” She smiled at me. “I regret the time I took your dad to see Bob Dylan for his birthday.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell Lennon, but I slept through most the show.” I giggled at that and made a mental note to tell Lennon as soon as I saw her next. “And I regret not discussing your colorblindness with you more often.” She reached over taking one of my hands and giving it a squeeze.

“Mom.” I pulled her in for a hug. “You don’t have to regret that,” I said over her shoulder then pulled away.

“If we’d been more open about it, with you and everyone, I think you wouldn’t have felt so insecure. To know what we thought was protecting you may have hurt you is something I will always regret.” My mom reached up and tucked that pesky piece of hair back behind my ear.

“Maybe,” I said to her. “Maybe talking about it more would have changed how I felt, or maybe not. At the end of the day, I’m an adult now, and I’m not going to blame what happened as a kid on how I am today. I made the choice to continue hiding, and that’s all on me.”

“You’re incredible,” my mom said tapping away the tears lodged in the corners of her eyes. “Some man one day will see that, too,” my mom said patting my leg as she stood from my bed.
Some man, but not Wes, I suppose.

I taped up the last of the boxes and took in my cardboard room. This was it. I was leaving home, but it was so much more. I was stepping away from my comfort zone, my sanctuary, my hideout, and my self-imposed prison. Still, I felt so much more in control of my life at this second than I had the entire time I struggled to control it.

Clink. Something sounded near my window, and my attention went to the ornament still hanging. I hadn’t decided yet if I wanted to take it with me. Somehow, it signified the beginning of Wes and me, and now that there was an end, I didn’t think it should come.

Clink. The sound echoed off the empty walls. I walked over and unhooked the ornament holding the tiny crystal paintbrush in my palm. It really was gorgeous, and even if Wes wasn’t in my life, painting sure was.

Clink. I peered out of my window into the night.

Clink. I jumped when a rock hit at the exact spot my face was pressed against. Then I knew.
Do I open it? Do I walk away?
I ran my thumb over the cool crystal in my hand and took a slow step back to my window. I lifted it slowly and poked my head out just enough to look down.

“Hey, baby.” He smiled from the grass waving his hand at me enthusiastically.

“Have you lost your damn mind,” I seethed down at him. Who did he think he was? Leaving me, not speaking to me for weeks, and then showing up at my window like freakin’ Romeo calling me baby?

“I did for a little while, but I’d like to think I got the bastard back in gear.” He tapped his head with his finger.

“What do you want?” I asked him only a tiny bit amused by his chipper state.

“I wanna show you something.” He waved his hand toward him. “Come down.”

“It’s not that easy, Wes.” I shook my head at him. I felt the urge to fall right back into us, but I reminded myself of all that he put between us.

“I know that,” he said putting his hands out wide. “I know I fucked up. I know I pushed you, and I know how much I hurt you. I also know how sorry I am; I know that no woman will ever come close to being as special to me as you are, and I know how much I need you.” There they were. The words I needed to hear weeks ago. My heart pounded in my chest coming back to life.

“Capri, go talk to the boy so I can get some sleep.”

“Dad!” I shouted at the same time Wes yelled, “Mr. Hunter?” My parents’ room was further down the hall but faced the same side of the house, and sure enough, my dad’s heading poking out of their window down the way.

“Don’t say anything more to me, Weston. I’m on your side right now, and I have a feeling if anything else comes from that mouth of yours, that may change.”

“Yes, sir,” Wes quickly replied as I hung my head out gawking at my dad. He was on Wes’ side?

“And thanks for the fruit basket,” he added.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“And don’t ask me about siding with him, Capri. You know you’re on his side, too. Go let the man explain and move already.” With that, I heard his window close.

“You heard the man,” Wes teased.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, I’ll be down in a few minutes,” I said and saw his fist pumping shadow. “But this changes nothing, Wes,” I firmly said.

“Baby, I’m about to change everything,” he shouted up at me and ran to meet me at the front of the house.

“Just close your eyes,” he pleaded with me.

“Wes, I’m not closing my eyes. You’re lucky I’m even in the car with you right now.” I sat as far into the metal door at my right as I could while we stopped at a red light. Somehow, Wes had convinced me to go with him to see whatever it was he needed to show me. It was probably the dimples. The dimples got me every time. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him, though.

“Capri, please. I don’t want you to see it until we’re there, and I promise if after, you still hate me, I’ll take you right home. Or better yet, I’ll call Lennon to come get you.”

“Okay,” I agreed only because I knew the wrath of Lennon on him in the middle of the night would make up for anything. I covered my eyes with my hands as he put the car back into gear.

Only a few minutes later, Wes was opening my door to help me out. “Keep both eyes covered with one hand, and I’m going to take the other okay?” he asked.

“’Kay,” I said back, sucking in a sharp breath. If it was even possible, the anticipation he sparked in me when he said he was going to touch my hand was far greater than even anticipating our first kiss, and I’d dreamed about that for years. Gently, his fingertips tickled the back of my hand in a ghost of a touch. I held my breath waiting for more. Then his calloused palm clasped around my hand so delicately it felt like he was holding onto so much more than my hand, and he helped me step out of the car.