Page 64 of Texting Mr. Stranger

Instead, I find him in his art studio. His hair is streaked with red paint, giving him an almost warrior look. He walks around barefoot, paintbrush at his side, striding toward a large canvas in the corner. He looks determined as he adds a flurry of brushstrokes to it.

I can just about see the outlines of a woman when I squint. Maybe the edges of a window frame, but the picture is messy and wild, just like he seems.

“You good?” I ask.

He turns to me like I’ve taken him off guard. For a moment, he looks manic, like our mother would sometimes get before shutting herself in her room for long reading binges. Then he smirks, making me wonder if I imagined the look.

“Yeah. Just keeping busy until it’s time. Is everything ready?”

“There’s a snag,” I say. “Katrina thinks it will look strange if the performers are out of view of the crowd.”

From how my brother looks at me, I’m almost shocked when he doesn’t sayduh. “There might be a way around that, though. We can keep them safe?—”

“Them?” I snap.

“She hasn’t asked you yet?”

“This doesn’t sound good,” I grunt.

“It’s not my place to say.”

He’s got that stubborn look on his face, so there’s no way he’s going to spill. I can tell. “What’s your idea?” I snarl.

“It’s your favorite thing …” he smirks. “Poetic, artistic. It’ll be perfect.”

As soon as I approach the guesthouse, I know I’ve guessed correctly. I hear two violins lacing the air with their music, one hopping between intricate notes, the other playing a steadier background. I can’t quite place the piece. Whether that’s because I don’t know it or because of this pounding in my head, I don’t know.

“Oh,hello.”

I turn at the voice. Samantha is sitting under the eaves of the porch. With the shadow across her face, she looks very similar to her daughter. Yet when she enters the light, I find it difficult to believe I would ever see Bella so visibly angry.

“Mrs. Rossi,” I murmur.

“It’s Miss,” she cuts in. “I didn’t correct you before … but it’s Miss.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Rossi,” I tell her. “You kept your husband’s name?”

“It’s mydaughter’sname.” She gestures at the porch chairs. “Will you sit with me?” The music continues to act as a backdrop.

“Sure.”

Walking over to the chairs together, she leans forward, looking at me closely with major mother-bear energy. “Are you going to hurt my daughter?”

Straight to it, then? “No,” I say firmly. “I’d never do that. I’ll do everything I humanly can to keep your daughter safe. She deserves the best and all the support a man can give. I’m going to give that to her.”

I stop, taking myself off guard with the sudden passion. Miss Rossi leans back as if I’ve taken her by surprise, too. Her eyes widen. She has to close her mouth forcibly.

“Wow,” she mutters a moment later.

I laugh gruffly. “I know. It’s a lot.”

“Is it the truth?”

I think for a moment. I don’thaveto think about this for more than a second. Yet with something this important, I must know, without a single doubt, that I’m telling the complete truth.

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but your daughter is a special person. She’s so talented, dedicated, selfless. She’s the best person I’ve ever met.” All of it rushes out. I didn’t plan on any of this, but the words flow from somewhere deep and warm. “It’s the look on her face when she plays her violin …”

I don’t mention the video with those perfect shorts, but just the memory of it makes me want to rush into the house and tear the instrument from her hand.

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