Page 35 of Shattered Echoes

“Thank you,” I say. It sounds so silly; I wish I had said nothing at all.

He lets me go and scratches his neck. “Sure. You should be more careful. You could have had a nasty fall.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and smile instead. I can’t think of anything to say to him, so we continue on in silence, breaking through the foliage and making our way onto the road. He walks quietly beside me towards the house, his hands in his pocket. Of all days to choose not to drive.

"So," he starts, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. "Remember how much we hated each other in high school?"

I snort, grateful for a break in the awkward silence. "Hated is a strong word, but let's just say we weren't best friends."

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, right? Col, you hated my guts. Admit it.”

I grin. “Well, you weren’t the easiest person to talk to. Always quiet, withdrawn. With that serious look in your eyes. I guess you always made me uncomfortable. And, though we were the same age, you always treated me like a kid. I hated that.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said. He looks like he wanted to say more, his face frowning, and then he falls silent. After a few moments, he adds, “I guess I was just… well, me.”

"Mr. Rockstar," I tease, unable to resist a playful jab.

He grunts and laughs, a warm, genuine sound that washes over me. It's the one of the few times I've heard him laugh, and the sweetness of it makes me wish he did so more.

"Yeah, something like that," he admits, his smile fading. "Though being a rockstar isn't all it's cracked up to be."

We lapse into silence again, but this time it's easier, more comfortable. We make our way through town, talking about pleasant things. Nothing too serious, though. Nothing dark. It feels like we have been walking for only a few minutes, but I glance at my watch, and it’s been just shy of half an hour.

A deep feeling of apprehension shoots through me as I work my keys through the keyhole. Do I want to do this again, or do I send him home now? The lock clicks, and the moment passes. I want this, I realize, and the thought scares me. I enter the foyer, and he follows me into the house, his gaze sweeping over the familiar space.

I’ve not done much in the way of renovations, and the house still looks the same as it has for years, mismatched furniture and paintings I've done myself. When we enter the sitting room, Antonio stares at a large canvas above the fireplace, a swirling vortex of emotions painted in shades of blue and gray.

"Wow," he whispers, his awe clear in his voice. "This is…breathtaking."

My cheeks flush with a mixture of pride and nervousness. "Thanks," I mumble, avoiding his gaze.

"Did you make all of them?" he asks, gesturing towards the other paintings scattered around the room.

"Most of them," I admit. "It's kind of like…therapy for me."

He turns back to me, smiling. "I can see why. You're pretty good."

The compliment hangs in the air, a soothing balm. “Would you like some tea?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Er, sure. That would be nice.”

I lead him into the kitchen, and he settles by the kitchen counter, drumming his fingers on the tabletop as I brew a pot. In no time, we're sipping lemon tea with honey and nibbling on homemade cookies.

“Seems like ages since I’ve been in here,” he says, washing down a mouthful of cookies with his tea.

“Tell me about it. When I came here some weeks ago, I felt like a complete stranger.”

He nods and takes another sip from his mug, cradling it. My skin tingles with an awareness of him.

“So, art,” he says. “I know you said you’re a graphic designer, but I never thought you painted.”

For a fleeting moment, I consider telling him about the secret life I lead after dark. About the way I sneak out under the cloak of night, armed with spray paint, transforming the town's forgotten corners into vibrant pieces of art.

But the thought of his potential disapproval, the fear of him seeing me as a vandal, a rule breaker, holds me back.

“I know, right?” I say, deflecting his question. “I don’t know… I just haven’t been feeling very inspired.”

“Tell me about it,” he mumbles, his voice louder than a whisper, his eyes adopting a faraway look.

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