Page 74 of Break Your Fall

I make another promise to not beg, to not call out, to not cower to my father’s disappointment. I tell myself his choices are on him, and by making them, he’s not only losing a wife, he’s risking losing a son.

Reyna

Dominic Wescott. That’s my father’s name. He owns a gallery one town over from Bellsby. He’s an artist, a talent he’d gifted to me.

And to my sister.

That’s why I’ve never seen Jessabelle around; our father—and my mother—made sure their life stayed separate from mine.

Dominic Wescott.His name and the few paintings he has available online have carved a home in my head as I work on my own piece, mentally comparing the strokes of his brush with the strokes of mine.

His are made from a sharp, quick hand. Thin lines. Smudgy, twisty in places. Less white space.

Mine are made from lighter strokes, almost feather-like, soft edges and angles.

But lately, mine have started to match his. A sharp intent that pulls the corners of my mouth up.

I’m mixing whites, grays, blacks on my palette to shift my work to the next section of the canvas when I hear a distinctive tapping on my outside door.

Tap.Pause.Tap. Tap. Tap.

I turn my head to my shoulder—the signal that lets Tommy know he can come in. If I don’t move my head when he taps out the knock, he knows I’m in the middle of a serious session and, unless it’s an emergency, I will attack with paint splatters to the face if I’m bothered.

Theclickof the door sounds and I stand from my stool, turning to see the awe on his face as he approaches and takes in my piece. It’s an illusion painting of seasons; summer and winter merged. The one that catches the eye will depend on the angle it’s viewed. I don’t want to get my hopes up with this one, but I’m impressed with myself so far.

“Wow,” Tommy breathes with a slow spreading smile.

“You’re easily impressed,” I say with a laugh as I put aside my supplies, a contradiction to my own thoughts, the pesky doubt nipping at me.

“Wow,” he repeats with slight amusement, offended for himself and for me, and I laugh again. “You’re fantastic, Reyna.”

“Thanks,” I sigh out. “It’s something new I’m trying, so. . .”

Tommy watches me, and in the quiet heaviness of his gaze, the song I have playing filters through my ears and I feel myself cringe as awareness passes over his face now, feeling raw, like every wound I’ve ever had is fresh and exposed.

“Father of Mine” has been on a loop since I started painting this evening, blending into the background. I haven’t gotten around to telling Tommy about my father, but I now know Camille has spilled from the look on his face.

“Yeah,” I say through an uneasy laugh. “Dramatic.”

Tommy points at himself. “Horrific.” He shakes his head. “And that’s not dramatic. It’s having company. You’re commiserating with Everclear,” he says with a playful smile that brings out mine.

Fellow feeling syndrome.I blame the wounds.

But now I have you,I think as I turn off the song.

“And own it,” Tommy says now, waiting for my eyes to meet his before he adds, “Your drama is your truth. And everyone should hear it.”

My heart pounds in my ears like a drumbeat, the rest of me stilling at those words as he says more.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

I release the remaining air in my lungs, able to move again, blinking and breathing as I think of the last time I heard that—from Julian. The statement means much more here. Because I know it’s coming from some place true. From someone true. From Tommy.

“I love everything about you,” he breathes through a small laugh, and his words still me again, make me lose my own. Everything he’s said creates a presence in me, gives me a presence, validates and helps heal what I’ve felt is broken in me.

I go to him and pull him into a hug, my arms around his neck, my voice a murmur at his ear. “I’m happy you’re here. I needed you.”

He gives me a squeeze, his fingers sliding up my back to rest in my hair. “I needed you, too.”

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