Page 25 of I Still Love You

Finally, he relents, his eyes softening and his forehead crinkling. “Thank you, sir. So very kind.”

I nod as he hands the canvas to Layla. Discreetly, he tucks the fifty into his pocket before preparing his area for the next person. I step away, following Layla off to the side. I watch as she props it against a tree trunk and observes it, how her brow curves in admiration.

“I can’t believe it looks this good,” she says with the same surprise she had in her voice back at the bench. She tilts her head, appreciating the slashes of paint on the canvas as she takes a step back.

“He knows what he’s doing,” I agree as she continues to eye it. I tuck my hands in the pockets of my shorts and can’t help but notice—once again—how good she looks in her daisy duke shorts. That street artist did a number on that canvas, but those legs.

She sniffs, her hand moving up to her face, and my eyes snapping to hers. Wait a second, is she, is she crying? I don’t understand. Still, I draw closer to her and the tree, partially grateful that it keeps us hidden from a portion of the people who are walking the strip of the square.

I tuck my hands into my pockets. “You okay?” It feels bitter leaving my mouth. I’d like to say more, enough to crack her open and pour her heart out to me at this moment, but I’d never forgive myself if I did.

She clears her throat, dabs under her eyes, and shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m fine. It’s not what it looks like.”

I don’t know what the fuck it looks like other than her having a burst of emotion looking at a painting of us.

Shit.

It’s a painting of us.

She can’t really be choked up about that, can she? I mean, she left me. Her dad’s accident is what made her flee but was she just as heartbroken as I was when she left? After she grieved, did she remember the love she left behind, that she left a fiancé who was unmistakably head over heels in love with her?

I step clo—

“Well, well, well, look who we have here.” A deep voice sounds from behind me, and I spin, thankful for it. Another second longer, and I would’ve curled my fingers around her elbow and tugged her to me. Then I realize it’s him.

11

Layla

I clear my throat, dab under my eyes, and shake my head. “Sorry. I’m fine. It’s not what it looks like.”

I can’t believe I’m letting this canvas get the best of me. When the street artist handed it over, my heart squeezed. All Luke and I have are memories—like our picnic under the weeping willow—and yet, the panting moved me, spurring to life a new kind of sadness in me, but it’s not the only reason behind the emotion pooling in my eyes.

It’s this place. This town. There are memories everywhere. Hidden under trees and in the fields that surround them. I knew coming back to Quaint would startle the grief I laid to rest, would draw it up from the dead and give it life. Driving into the square had my heart aching in a way similar to after my dad’s accident. On the fields that surround the square, we used to play badminton.

Early Sunday mornings, we’d pack the car up and grab our rackets. Then we’d pop that little birdie back and forth until our stomachs would grumble, and we went in search of food. I think that’s the real reason behind my tears, but the canvas pushed me over the edge before I could catch myself, before I could grip onto anything.

I can only imagine how this looks to Luke, though. I’m ready to turn and tell him I’m truly okay when I feel his presence close in on me, but I never get the chance.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here.” A deep voice sounds from behind us. The hairs on the back of my neck are a clear indicator of who it is. Out of instinct, I step forward to block our canvas from Andrew’s view. It’s absolutely beautiful, and I don’t want him to tarnish it with those perusing eyes of his. Unfortunately, he sees it before I’m able to hide it entirely.

“Look at that,” he comments, leaning to peer around me with a syrupy grin. My breath hitches when his gaze greedily eats up the curves of pencil lines the street artist used to draw Luke and I’s figures, the streaks of golden yellow and deep blue he used to enhance the curves of our bodies. “Nothing says a happy couple like a painting in the park.”

I cross my arms over my chest, peppering my tone with salt. “What’s that supposed to mean?” A gag desperately crawls up my throat when his eyes glide over my chest to the bareness of my thighs. My fingers itch to jab him in the eye sockets, to teach him a lesson for his perverse glances. Quite frankly, I’m getting tired of it.

“What does it mean?” he repeats, bringing his gaze back up to mine, and completely ignoring Luke, who’s been quietly observing from the sidelines. “It means that I’m shocked, to put it simply.” He shrugs a shoulder and moves toward the tree, toward me. “What? You expect me to think you two are solid? Didn’t you ditch him after he put a pretty little ring on your finger?” I roll my eyes at his judgment, trying like hell not to let the remorse in.

I scoff at his outlandish words, mostly because he doesn’t know me. How dare he ridicule me for something he knows nothing about. “You don’t know me,” I snip back, twisting my arms tighter into my chest. “At all.”

I’m appalled when he looks at Luke. Now would be a good time for him to, I don’t know, rescue me from this awful encounter, but he stands, just a few feet away, watching as it plays out. All over again, my anger flares as Andrew says, “I know enough.”

My nose wrinkles in disgust when he smirks. Who does he think he is?

When he crowds Luke and slaps a palm to his shoulder, I cringe. Luke peels his hand from him, flicking it away as he has the audacity to say, “She must be good in the sheets if you took her back.”

My body heats with irritation, with outrage, and I swear if I were to hold a mirror up to my face, I’d get the image of my bared teeth. That Luke remains stalk still, blatantly glaring at Andrew and doesn’t say a word, only intensifies it.

Say something. Put him in his place, for crying out loud!

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