Page 66 of Sweet Home Louisiana

“I’m glad.”He voice was husky.“But fuck—” He sighed.“I hate that those are your feelings about everything here.”He looked genuinely unhappy about that.

She wet her lips.“I don’t know if that will keep being the case.”

“What do you mean?”

“The dark and stormy stuff was obviously my last impressions.Not just the bad stuff that happened with my mom and dad, but how I felt about it all.The fear, the wanting to get away and yet missing everything like crazy once I was gone, the anger that I had to make that decision in the first place.”

He watched her, gently keeping the swing going with his foot.

“But now…my impressions and feelings about everything here are a lot nicer.Brighter.Happier.”

Maddie realized he’d been holding his breath when he breathed out in relief.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said with sincerity.

She was, too.Kind of.Would happy paintings of the bayou and daylight images of the little fishing village sell like the dark and stormy paintings?She didn’t know.

“Is that going to ruin your rep?”he asked, as if reading her mind.

She shot him a smile.“Not sure.”She focused on the floor of the porch.“I don’t even know if all of this will change my painting.I haven’t been able to paint anything at all since I’ve been here.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged.“I think it’s because this place, and all of the people—all of you—suck all the emotions out of me.I’m expressing them out loud and bydoingthings.”She paused, frustrated even with trying to explain it.“The drawing and painting are my way of getting my feelings out,” she said, starting over.“I channel it all onto the canvas.I don’t talk it out.I don’t…fire people, or make up stories about communicable diseases to keep girls away from my crush, or snap at a woman I care a lot about.I keep all of that kind of stuff inside and then I put it onto a canvas that will fit inside a frame.”She lifted her eyes to his.“I contain it.I literally put it into a box where it just sits and doesn’t change or grow.Or get out of control.”

Owen’s expression was hard to read.He looked concerned, which made her feel warm.He also looked pissed and she knew, somehow, it was on her behalf.Whether it was because she was feeling all of these things that he didn’t like her having to feel, or because she clearly hadn’t had people she could talk to or who would comfort her, she didn’t know.

“Dammit, Mad,” he finally said, his voice rough.“You’re killing me.”

“Sorry.”She looked down at the can in her hands.“I shouldn’t have dumped that all on you.”

He reached out, wrapped his hand around the back of her neck.“Mad.”He waited until she looked up at him.“Not what I meant.”

There was an intensity in his eyes that she knew not many people saw from him.He was the laid-back, fun-loving playboy.He didn’t do intense.At least, he didn’t let people see it.

“I want to know all of this.But, babe, I can’t help also wanting to fix it all.So, I’m just…struggling.I’m not a very good listener.”

“Not true,” she said softly.

“I’m not very good atjustlistening,” he amended.“I want todothings.”

“You can’t fix this.”

“I can’t fix the past, no.I can’t change what happened here.And seems that making new, better memories is…maybe not all good.”He frowned as if confused by that.

“I didn’t say that,” she protested.

“But you love to paint,” he said.

“I do.”

“And you can’t do that here.You need to control your emotions, channel them, put them someplace safe—like on a canvas.”

Her throat felt tight.“That’s what I’ve always thought, yes.”

“And you stillwantto paint.You still want to make a living from your art.”

“That’s always been my plan,” she admitted, rather than saying yes.Because lately she wasn’t sure what she wanted exactly.

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