Page 2 of Lotus

I massage my backside, then tighten my robe, turning to face the house on the opposite side of mine. Gabe is poking his head out through the screen door with a worried frown.

I grin through my shrug. “Oh, you know, just pissing off old ladies before I’ve even had my morning coffee. The usual.”

“Troublemaker,” he winks, propping his elbow against the frame. “You hurt yourself?”

“Just my pride and sparkling reputation.”

“So, you’re good, then.”

“Fantastic.” I smile wide. “Always Sunnymarathon tonight?”

He points a finger at me. “Make that taco dip and it’s a date.”

I give him an agreeable salute and watch as he disappears back inside.

Gabe Wellington is my best friend. We’re like siblings, having grown up together over the past twenty-six years. I moved into this house with my parents when I was only three, then bought it from them last year when Dad retired and wanted to pursue his lifelong dream of living on a golf course. Gabe grew up in the house next door with his father and stepmother.

And Oliver.

But we don’t talk about Oliver anymore.

Gabe’s stepmom passed away over a decade ago, and his father, Travis Wellington, remarried and transferred the title of the house over to his son.

So, we’re still neighbors, still friends, and still making terrible decisions together.

I wander into the house, flipping through my credit card statements and utility notices. I push my dark-rimmed eyeglasses up the bridge of my nose, reminiscing over the days I would look forward to getting mail—back when I was on the receiving end of aTeen Beatsubscription and money-filled cards from Grammy.

My tabby cat, Alexis, purrs as she circles my ankles, and I tug at my messy bun before leaning down to scoop her up. I make my way into my office with the orange cat tucked under my arm, prepared to sort through e-mails and get to work. I’m primarily a graphic designer who focuses on building websites for clients. That’s what pays my bills, anyway.

I also paint.

Painting is my true passion, and I’m grateful that it provides an additional financial cushion to help support my coffee habit and dirty book collection. I’ve had a few pieces shown in art galleries, as well as auctions. I attend craft fairs and vendor shows, and I take on personal requests through my Etsy shop.

It’s a dream life in a lot of ways. I’m independent, and I work from home doing what I love. I even bartend on the occasional weekend so I can pretend I have a social life outside of Facebook and my cat.

But I won’t lie and say it’s perfect—loneliness creeps in more often than not. My parents live an hour away, and my sister, Clementine, has her own life with a young daughter as she battles through a messy divorce.

After powering up my laptop and settling in with my mug of coffee, I get to work, scrolling through e-mails and corresponding with one of my favorite romance authors who I have the privilege of designing a website for.

While I reach for my cell phone to turn on aLord Huronplaylist, I accidentally elbow Alexis, who jumps from the desk and knocks my coffee over in the process.

“Shit!” I curse, realizing my Arabian mocha has just toppled onto a stack of paintings I had carelessly placed beside my workstation. “No, no, no…” I act quick, grabbing a discarded t-shirt and rushing back over to the scene of the crime. My breath catches when I notice the painting that caught the brunt of the mess.

It’s a painting of Oliver Lynch.

My childhood best friend.

Gabe’s stepbrother.

The little boy who went missing on the Fourth of July almost twenty-two years ago, never to be seen again.

I frantically begin dabbing at the portrait, tears springing to my eyes.

Not this one. Please not this one.

I spent eight long months working on this painting. It was based off the computer-generated, age-progressed photo of Oliver released by the media. It’s an image of what he may look like today if he were still alive.

The shirt soaks up the dark coffee, and I watch it seep into the cotton fabric before setting it aside to trail my finger down along his jawline. It’s been over two decades, but the wound feels fresh. My heart still aches when I think about the boy with light brown hair and eyes like a burgundy sunset. I can still hear his laugh and picture his dirt-smudged overalls.

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