Page 27 of Until Forever Falls

I avert my eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “You really don’t need to do anything for me.”

“Well, too late,” he says, holding the brush in a way that makes it feel as though it’s a challenge only I can accept. “You in?”

The sincerity in his gaze wraps around me like a soft rope, pulling me in. “Guess I’m not getting out of this, am I?”

“Not a chance, Rivers.”

The light streaming through the stained glass bathes the floor in an array of colors. Brooks leads the way to a blank section of the wall he prepared, and I lower myself onto the ground. Without a word, he eases himself next to me, stretching out.

“So…tell me. What’s your story, Dylan?”

I let out an apathetic huff. “Yeah, I don’t think there’s enough time in the world for that.”

“C’mon, SparkNotes version. Give me the highlights while we paint.”

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, the bristles of my brush hovering mid-air as I consider his request. “Well, I fear I’m not very interesting. You know my mom is crazy.” I start, brushing a fleck of paint off my sleeve. “My dad has been out of the picture for as long as I can remember, so it’s been me and Beckett raising ourselves, pretty much. We moved around a lot as kids, never really staying in one place long enough to get comfortable. My mom is an alcoholic, and—” A sudden stillness overtakes me, and my words stumble out of reach. “And long story short, she’s always been angry, but I’m usually the target. What you saw wasn’t even close to her worst.”

Brooks’ brush halts mid-stroke. “What do you mean? Does she hit you?”

“No.” I squint, avoiding his stare. “She’s thrown stuff at me, but mostly she just…yells.A lot. Screams about how I ruined her life. You know, the fun stuff.”

His muscles tighten, a quiet crackling energy forming between us. I drop my gaze to the wall, focusing on the black streaks blooming across the surface as the rush of everything I don’t want to name crawls through my veins, scraping bone from the inside out.

Brooks remains silent, but I don’t dare meet his eyes. I don’t need his pity or his well-meaning sympathy. My brush glides over the wall, leaving bold, dark lines behind—an outlet for everything I can’t say out loud.

Finally, his words slip through. “That’s not okay.”

“I didn’t say it was.” My throat feels too small to hold everything in. Talking about this is the last thing I want to do, not at this moment, not with him. I don’t know what I was thinking.

“I can see it, Dylan. The way you keep everything inside. You’re allowed to be angry, you know. You’re allowed to admit that you deserve better.”

My brush halts mid-sweep, as if even the paint is listening. It’s not the pity I braced for but something closer to indignation. I look up then, the multicolored glass spilling soft light across his features, catching on the edges of his emotion.

“Better doesn’t just appear because we say we deserve it,” I say, forcing the words out. “You can want something your entire life, but it doesn’t mean it’s ever going to happen.”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” he counters, the conviction in his tone unmistakable. “But you shouldn’t have to settle for just surviving. You’re worth more than pretending like things are fine when they clearly aren’t.”

I don’t say anything. Deep down, I know he’s probably right, but it’s easier to believe the story I’ve told myself a million times—that this is just how things are, and hoping for anything better is pointless. With every swipe of the brush, I feel the waves begin to take shape, unsure whether they should touch the girl’s feet yet. The way her toes just barely breach the water feels like she’s cautiously approaching something she’s been avoiding, watching for a sign that it’s safe enough to let herself feel what she’s been holding back.

I stand, straightening my shoulders, my eyes taking in the scene from a different angle. There’s something about it that feels right, even though I didn’t expect it to. It’s in the way the colors flow together, the way the water carries an energy that defies explanation. It’s not perfect, but it resonates in ways I didn’t expect. For a split second, I’m not hiding from the truth. It’s as if the fractured pieces of me are finally coming together, falling into place where they belong.

Brooks draws closer, his eyes tracing the mural like he’s trying to read between the strokes. “You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, my hand tightening around the brush as I try to focus on the minor details, hoping it will distract me from this proximity.

He leans in, his arm brushing mine, and for a moment, I lose all sense of time. Goosebumps rise along my arms, responding to the gentle shift in his voice.

“Dylan…”

I glance out of the periphery of my vision, caught in the motion between strokes. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to say…”

Heat blooms in my chest, and I’m acutely aware of the space shrinking between us. “What?”

His lips twitch ever so slightly when I turn to him, like he’s amused by something only he understands. “I think you’ve got paint on your face.”

“Wait, what?” My eyes widen, disoriented as his laugh takes me by surprise. My hand flies to my cheek, and sure enough, wet paint smears under my fingertips.

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