Page 19 of The Wrong Move

Staying home to paint. Maybe another time.

While I wanted to say yes, I would love to see you, I’m not ready. My heart is still healing from someone tossing me aside for someone else with no explanation.

It hurts, even if Dante wasn’t the right person for me. Another lesson in love, and when the time is right, I’ve considered what I want in a lover. When it comes to love, I have also made a mental list of what I need and what I don’t. A gorgeous man with an equally gorgeous body is not a combination to say yes to, even if my hormones argue otherwise. He has to respect me. We have to be able to have long chats and connect on a level other than physical. I want to laugh and cry with him, and he has to be there when I need him most.

“Byron Hendricks,” Mom says. “Sorry, I saw the name, not the message.”

“We met for coffee the other day.”

Mom listens but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. She knows how he hurt me the last time. She also knows he’s basketball famous and what fame can do to young men. While I have found fame in my own way, it doesn’t come with thestardom or fan base of a music, film, or sports star, and I’m thankful for that.

“I’d better get started before the morning is over.” I kiss Mom on the cheek, then head to the studio to grab what I need to sit outside and paint.

The purpleof the bougainvillea is my favorite color.

I’m creating a piece of art where, on a larger block canvas, the design can be transferred to fabric. I’m imagining a flowing white dress with all the colors of the bougainvillea. Dad comes to stand behind me and peers over my shoulder. “Do you like it?” I ask gently.

He steps aside and rubs his gloves. Dirt falls to the ground. “Very much, Gigi. Are you going to add the white variety?”

I smile at my father and wipe the smudge of dirt from his cheek. “I will. It needs more shading around the flower for it to pop.”

His eyes glaze as though he is remembering something. He stares at me for a few more seconds, then totters off.

The shade shifts, and before long, the hot morning sun is almost directly above me. Gathering my easel, I move closer to the house while still under the shade of the jacaranda tree. The purple flowers are beginning to bloom for the second time this year. We’re lucky to have a tree that flowers twice a year, and while I love the purple rain of the flowers falling to the ground, my canvas is not where I want buds to land. Mom is fond of seeing color throughout the yard, so Dad cleans the foliage from his mass of trees every Sunday. It’s his routine.

I retrieve my palette and stools and get back to painting, ignoring the sound of Mom chatting in the background. At leasta half hour passes before I’m too hot to stay outside any longer, even after four years in Italy acclimatizing me to paint in the heat. I stand and wipe my brow, and all the air leaves my lungs. Byron is sitting on a chair, watching me.

“Um… hi.”

“Hey.” He stands and shoots his heart-winning smile, and it hits me right in the chest. “Your mom said I wasn’t allowed to disturb you.”

Oh my God, why?

“I don’t mind being disturbed. I can do two things at once.” How long was he watching me?

He closes the distance between us. Out here in the fresh air, I can smell him more than I care to. I close my eyes, remembering how good he smells up close. “Can I give you a hand?”

“I’d appreciate it.” I ogle his designer shorts and T-shirt while I wipe my hands on my old shirt. “Careful with the paint… you don’t want to get it on your clothes. I need to get this upstairs. Could you bring the easel?”

Byron follows me through the house. The last time he was here is something I have tried to forget. After speaking to him at the reunion, I sensed he barely remembers what happened that night, and I’m not about to remind him. I turn and watch his long muscled legs take two steps at a time. I wait for him to set up the easel inside the studio, then I position the painting on it and stand back to stare at it.

“It looks good, Gigi.” Byron turns in a circle, taking in my studio décor. There are more shelves, paints, markers, and pencils in jars on the table against the wall since he was last here. Plus, extra easels for sketching and blank canvases that line the wall ready for the next project. “I remember some of these.”

“You do?” There is an array of unfinished works. Many are my early pieces, but Mom refuses to throw them out.

“Yeah.” He picks up a smaller canvas of the beach—the one with the Santa Monica pier. “I remember you had just finished this and hated it, yet I thought it was brilliant.” He stares at me. “Why is it hidden up here?”

“It’s not that good.” I take it out of his hands and place it back on the floor.

“Gigi, we spoke about this. About believing in ourselves.”

“I do believe in my work, but this piece is from inexperience. If you like it, then it’s yours.”

“It reminds me of us,” he quietly says as he retrieves it from the hardwood floor.

He’s studying the painting as though it is an image of us. My heart races, remembering the fun we had at the beach. He was not a boy or a man back then. He was something in between. While he looks like a man now, with his thick biceps, muscled chest, and rounded shoulders, his decisions are yet to be judged. Byron was stubborn, determined, and loved attention. He had all the qualities of an elite sports star, but I got to see his gentle side when he was with me. Before his fame, my memories were of the skinny boy who was not strong enough, not tall enough, and couldn’t make foul shots under pressure to win games. He glances up at me, his face serious.

“What are you thinking about?”

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