Page 56 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

He laughed, and I loved the full-bodied sound of it.

“Stop deflecting. You’re Wickham and Gaston. Just accept it.”

“My name on the ice is literally Beast.”

“You can’t be the protagonist of every story, Dylan.”

“What about my own?”

“I’ll allow it.” We smiled at each other for a beat before he turned his attention to one of the commercial paintings I’d brought up here to touch up.

It depicted a dilapidated cabin in the woods, a single lamplight shining in the window, dark trees all around them lit up only by the light of the moon. It was based on the cabin on our family’s island. Haydn thought I needed to let people know that Lia’s latest album was based on songs that were inspired by this cabin and island, but I didn’t want to use my future sister-in-law for sales—even if it seemed harmless. She’d been used enough.

Besides. I almost didn’t want it to sell. I loved looking at it every day when I came into the store. Jules thought it was too dark and didn’t fit the aesthetic of the rest of my paintings. It made me wonder what he’d think if he saw my mural upstairs.

What could I say? I contained multitudes. (Thank you, Walt Whitman. And Lia Halifax for using that line in her latest single and making it a part of my vocabulary now.)

“It’s haunting,” he said. “What’s it called?”

“Longing.” I took in the mostly dark-colored palette, except for what the light of the moon and the single light just outside the house. “It’s inspired by one of my favorite legends. There’s an old, abandoned cabin that sits on my brothers’ island. The story is that a family moved there almost a hundred years ago and tried to make a go of living in Alaska. But the conditions were tough and they struggled. Then they started to get sick. The father of the family left to get some help, and when he came back, his family had disappeared. He didn’t know if they’d died or if they’d left the island. Even today, people say that if you look out to the island at night, you can see his lamplight shining as he searches for his lost family.”

I stopped looking at the picture and found him staring at me closely. “Anyway, I’ve always loved that story, and I wanted to paint it.”

“How long did it take you to paint?”

“About a month.”

He stood to take in the painting closer and then shifted toward my mural. He walked slowly along the wall, carefully looking at all my artwork while I held my breath. Occasionally, he’d reach out to touch something—his fingers grazing a ridge of paint, his knuckles brushing the swell of a wave, the very tip of his thumb against a foamy shore, and it would send a tingle through me, like those casual touches were happening to me.

“Is that an average time for you?”

I brought my hands up to hot cheeks and tore my focus from his hands. “I really don’t have an average time. It depends so much on how many projects I have going at the time and how much I can devote to it. So I might finish a painting in a couple of days, especially my smaller ones.” I motioned to the mural. “I’ve been working on this one for a year.”

“It’s fascinating to hear about what you do.”

Those bones that weren’t connected anymore? They were now in a puddle around my feet. No one thought hearing me talk about my artwork was interesting. Trust me. I’d gotten plenty ofzzzemojis from my brothers when I got too in the weeds of details about my paintings. And even Charlie, the most patient of us all, sometimes got a glazed look in her eye if I went on for too long about something I was working on.

To have someone listen and care? It was nice. Having melted bones might not sound pleasant, but somehow it was.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked impulsively.

“I’m super busy doing pull ups.”

“That is important. But,” I drew the word out, “I’m heading down to the library to do community service.”

“Court mandated?”

I nodded. “It’s a long story that involves your dad, a traffic jam of epic proportions, and saving actual lives. Or it could be for the unsanctioned mural of your dad.”

“I heard about that one.”

“It was pretty epic.” I shrugged. “You have to make your own fun in a small town.”

A short laugh burst out of him, and I found I liked that very much.

“What’s the service?”

“Painting the exterior walls. Just white on clapboard, so it’s totally boring, but at least it’s not cleaning up bodily fluids or something.”

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