Page 51 of Our Secret Summer

“Oh, Con.” Even now, Raffo was happy to see Con. Things weren’t quite right between them, but they weren’t exactly fighting either. She’d been avoiding him lately, telling herself it was to give him time with Murray while his boyfriend was in town. “Come in.”

“Love what you’ve done with the place.” Connor’s voice was full of irony because Raffo hadn’t bothered yet with procuring much furniture. “Looks like you may need Connor Hart’s magic touch with your interior design.”

“Maybe, yeah.” The words came out softer than she intended, weighted with everything she wasn’t saying. Raffo had plenty of flair for decorating a home, but she simply didn’t have the energy to decide which couch she wanted and what color her bedroom should be. It reminded her of the confrontation she needed to have with Mia, the gorgeously decorated house they needed to sell, and the furniture they would have to divide—all the things she was afraid of.

Connor paced through the sparsely furnished house. His eye must have been drawn by the colors of Raffo’s just-finished painting, because he walked straight toward it.

“Fuck me.” The words punched through the careful distance they’d been maintaining. “That’s my mom?” He leaned in to examine the canvas up close, then took a step back.

Raffo could hardly deny it, but it felt weird to confirm the subject of her painting to Connor.

“It’s a little different than what I’m used to from you. Not as whimsical. More… I don’t want to say serious, but there is a certain gravitas to it that is incredibly compelling.”

Raffo couldn’t help but chuckle at Connor’s pretentious art critic voice.

Connor turned to her. “I’m not even kidding, Raff. Fuck. It’s astounding.” He gave her the same once-over he’d just given the painting. “It’s like you’ve taken things up another notch after your… hiatus.”

“I’m quite pleased with it,” Raffo said.

Connor grinned. “Being an expert at Raffo-speak, I know what that really means and I’m thrilled.” The familiar teasing felt like a lifeline thrown across the divide between them.

Connor was right. Raffo was more than just pleased with that painting of Dylan. The process of painting it had offered her a much-needed escape from the reality of her messy life while also giving her immense creative fulfillment. The canvas held everything she couldn’t say aloud: desire, fear, the strange peace she’d found in Dylan’s arms.

She didn’t know how many more portraits of Dylan she’d have to make to get over her, but Raffo did know that, for her, it would probably be the only way to get Dylan out of her system. She was lucky that art was her job as well as the therapy that had always worked best for her—except after Mia. Maybe finally giving in to the urge to paint Dylan—to paint what she really wanted—was exactly what she needed to put her desire as well as her botched relationship behind her.

“I can totally see this as the center piece at your Chicago show,” Connor said.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Connor drew in a sharp breath. “Intellectually, I know that’s my mom. Naked. But I’m choosing to see past that. What matters is its impact—the obvious beauty and this new... quality it has. I’m really floored by it, to be honest. As long as we don’t mention the M-word.”

Denial was one way to go about it, Raffo guessed, even though it caused quite the conflict inside her. She had needed to paint Dylan like this. It had poured from her heart and soul out of pure necessity. That’s probably why Connor noticed a different, perhaps more profound layer to it. But that she was now unable to discuss this with him, her best friend and gallerist—the most loyal admirer of her work—was complicated to say the least. Connor could pretend that wasn’t Dylan in that painting all he wanted, but the fact that it was Dylan was the whole point for Raffo. And then there was another matter.

“I’m not sure this should be a commercial work,” Raffo said.

“Oh.” The single syllable carried volumes of unspoken tension.

“We have to askherpermission.” Christ. Raffo couldn’t bring herself to say ‘your mom’—how ridiculous was that?

“That won’t be a problem.” His voice had taken on that brittle quality it got when he was trying to maintain control.

“How do you know? She hasn’t even seen the painting. She doesn’t know it exists.” This was still Raffo’s work, an intimate portrait of what burned inside her heart, and Connor couldn’t just come in and take over.

“Out of guilt. She owes me,” Connor had the audacity to say.

“She’s your mom, Con. Have a little respect.”

“Respect? Like she respected me when she kissed you in my living room?”

Raffo shook her head. “It’s my decision, and that painting’s not going anywhere until I’ve shown it to Dylan.”

Connor was visibly taken aback by the sharpness in Raffo’s tone.

“Of course,” Connor said, his tone equally biting. “As long as I don’t have to be there for thatspecialmoment.”

“We are trying, Con. We are only doing our best, for you, even though, frankly, what happened between me and Dylan had fuck all to do with you.” Raffo surprised herself. She hadn’t been herself since Dylan had come back to kiss her—to make her climax against Connor’s wall like that. Then again, she hadn’t been herself for months. Not since Mia had dumped her. Not in Big Bear—not for the most part, anyway. And certainly not since she’d returned to Los Angeles. Even when she was painting—really painting and not fruitlessly noodling around with a work she couldn’t put her heart into—something was different with her, hence the finished work on that easel over there. Being with Dylan had changed her.

“What do you want me to say?” Connor exploded. “I’m sorry for being my mother’s son? I’m sorry for standing in the way of whatever it is you want to do with each other?”

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