Page 46 of From Our First

“I suppose you should.” She took a step back, and I walked in, doing my best not to touch her or brush against her. Because if I did, I was afraid what I might do. It was hard to keep from touching her. I wanted to hold her close and pretend like our past hadn’t happened. That, somehow, we were moving beyond all the pain that had broken us. Only I knew that was a dream, and one I didn’t even want.

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it?

“Do you want some coffee?” she asked, and that’s when I realized that she was holding a mug. She had on a long sleeve cotton shirt and jeans with holes in the thighs and knees. There were paint splatters on her wrists, as well as on her hips. Her hair was piled on the top of her head, although some of the layers were a bit short and fell around her face, the blond pieces making it look like a halo.

She was both my fall and my salvation. And I was the one left wanting.

“I would love some coffee,” I said after a moment.

She nodded tightly. “Then let’s get you some. Honestly, I’m glad you’re here. We can be adults about this. We aren’t children anymore.”

“You’re right. And I think coffee would probably be the best thing right now because I sort of chugged mine before I got here. It might’ve scalded my throat.”

She smiled half-heartedly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. We were off to a rocking start so far.

I followed her into her kitchen and studied the lines of her home. It was beautiful, light in every corner, and places for photos and art and so many of the things that spoke of the person Myra was now, but I also caught glimpses of the Myra I had known before.

There were no photos of her family other than her grandmother and a few female cousins I knew she liked. I didn’t see her parents or that annoying cousin, Roland. I didn’t see memories of her college year with me. But therewerephotos of the pact sisters. And of Joshua and the kittens.

So many memories of when she was happy, when she was the Myra she was becoming, the one I desperately craved and wanted to get to know, even if I knew it wasn’t my place or my right to do so.

Her kitchen was white with light granite and cabinets that looked almost modern country. I had seen a few HGTV shows, but Arden had decorated my place. I didn’t know what to call Myra’s home or style, other than comfortable. Not exactly warm, the coolness of the metal and the reclaimed wood and sharp lines of some of the pieces wouldn’t screamhometo some. But I saw it, and I knew that it was pure Myra. Her home. So, while others might not see warmth, I did. Because beneath the icy exterior, there was a warmth to the woman. The person I had loved.

And, deep down, I was afraid I still loved her.

“Here you go.” She handed me a gray mug with hearts etched into the side.

“This looks homemade.” I looked down at the mug in my hand.

“Joshua made it, actually,” Myra said with a smile.

I looked down at the piece of pottery that looked nothing like something a child would make.

“Seriously? When I was his age, anything I made had enough holes in it to not be usable.”

Myra snorted. “I did most of it, but he helped. Had his little hands in mine when I was at the potter’s wheel.”

“So, you throw pottery?” I asked, not knowing that little tidbit regarding the woman I’d thought I knew so well all those years ago.

“Sometimes. I work with mixed metals and other materials, too. However, oil on canvas is still my bread and butter. Cliché for the people of my hometown.”

“I would think that would be watercolors.”

She smiled at that. “True, after luncheons and then brandies after dinner. Okay, so that’s a historical romance and not so much the elite of California.”

“I’ve seen your pieces,” I blurted.

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Other than a couple of the ones I saw around your home just now? Yes. Hazel has one.”

“She does.” Myra smiled. “I’m working on ones for Paris and Dakota. Joshua has a small painting in his room. I also have something in mind for Arden, but it takes me a bit to get there. I have commissions and a show coming up. With everything happening so quickly with the attack and our friends being in danger, it’s been hard to get in the mood to create hope and happiness. My art’s gone a little darker than I want lately, and while that’s fine for an art show, it’s not the best thing to put into something for your friend’s wall.”

I took a sip of the coffee and nearly choked.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

---