Page 70 of This

As I twist off the last bottle’s top, I decide to go. Get the hell out of Phoenix, even if it’s only for a few days. Except I won’t be booking some random ticket or driving aimlessly. I know where I’m going and who I’ll be seeing when I get there.

Two days before my birthday,the door with a four swings open. A doofy grin waits for me on the other side, and I give one right back.

“My fuckin’ brother,” he says, his arms spread wide. “I’ve missed you.”

I drop my bag and walk into those waiting arms—and not for one of those quick back-slapping-’cause-we’re-dudes hugs, but a meaningful embrace. Aria rolls her eyes from the couch, and I give her a wink over her boyfriend’s shoulder.

Steve Spires and I are in a full-fledged bromance; I will shamelessly admit it. Our relationship started simple enough. One of those situations where you see another human passed out on a couch, mostly naked, and think to yourself,I like him. The guy holds player stats like a computer and has better intuition for rebalancing a portfolio than most advisors I’ve met.

Once he releases me, I give Aria a proper greeting. She pushes onto her tiptoes so that she can hug me around the neck. Greens and blues have replaced the rainbow at the bottom of her black hair, the new colors providing a mermaid aesthetic. She holds on a little longer than I thought she would, a little tighter, too.

I sigh, pulling back. “Ground rules for the weekend: no pity, no asking if I’m okay, and no tricking me into talking about Bennett. Staying in her room is one thing, but I’d rather not think about her beyond that.”

Aria’s eyes bulge and dart to Steve and back before she breaks into a wild grin. “Sure. Great. How about I bake you a birthday cake?”

She rushes toward the kitchen, and I turn to a guilty-as-fuck Steve. He half-winces, half-smiles. “We might not have mentioned to Bennett that you were coming this weekend.” I shrug, not seeing why it would matter until he adds, “She’ll be here in the morning.”

“Bennett’s coming here?” I ask, needing confirmation I heard him correctly.

He nods, and I tense, glancing around the space she shared with them. As a child of divorce, I know how it works. Only one of us gets them at a time, and technically, I’m on her turf, visiting the friends she introduced me to.

“Should I leave?”

“What?” He shakes his head. “No. We left it out on purpose.”

Undecided whether to hit him or hug him again, I raise my eyebrows. “Please tell me you’re not playing matchmaker with me and my ex-girlfriend on the trip I took, so Iwouldn’tthink about my ex-girlfriend?”

“Dane”—he slaps a hand on my shoulder—“you were going to think about her. You’re going to keep thinking about her because you’re her burst. That type of connection doesn’t just break.”

Steve vibrates on a different frequency than most people—or as Aria puts it, his worldview is unique. Sometimes, it’s just best to roll with it and see where you land.

“Her burst,” I repeat. “And what the fuck does that mean?”

“The color to help balance the gray.” When I continue to stare at him, he hooks his head toward the stairs. “Let’s go.” He says it like my inability to decipher the Steve of it is a burden.

I follow him up the stairs and across the grated steel catwalk to Bennett’s old room. It only took one visit to learn to pop an antihistamine as I leave the airport, but I appreciate that they’ve kept the door closed. Little Stevie was obsessed with Bennett’s bed, rooting around in the comforter any chance he got.

When we walk in, I take a deep breath. The sweet scent of her lingers and soothes me as much as the blue-purple walls we used to stare at while lying naked in the bed. Ever since the first time I stepped into her room that day at her and Keaton’s apartment, I’ve loved being in her space. Maybe it’s because she rarely lets people in.

Steve is by the dresser, staring at the painting on the wall. “See?”

I trace my gaze over the curved brushstrokes creating the delicate features of Bennett’s face, buried beneath heavier strokes of exaggerated clown makeup. She said it looked nothing like her, but I think it resembles her too much at times. When the sadness creeps in after a mention of her mother or the panic she shows in a moment of raw vulnerability.

“What am I looking for?” I ask.

“The color burst,” he says.

Steve holds up his palm, rubbing circles in the air near the bottom of the painting where the blaze of bright pinks, purples, and yellows encroach on the muted shades covering the rest of the canvas.

“Bennett calls it her bright spot,” I tell him. Her favorite part, even though she claims to have no idea what it represents.

He chuckles. “It’s you—well, your influence. When I started painting her, I couldn’t envision any of these colors. She was dim, like a sheet of clouds covered her.” His thumb and forefinger pinch his chin while he studies his work. “Then she looked down to check her phone, and, hello, color burst. She said it was a friend from Phoenix texting her.” He looks over. “Notthe friend getting married.”

Out of love for the guy, I try to keep the skepticism to a minimum, but I am no Aria when it comes to dealing with the way he reads vibes and energies. “So, because it wasn’t Keaton, you assume it was me?”

“No,” he says, focused on the painting again. “I know it was you because she lit up the same way every time you were here or whenever she talked to you or about you.”

I picture Bennett sitting there with her phone in her lap, smiling at whatever nonsense I'd texted. Even if it’s all bullshit, I like the idea of being a source of light in her world because she was a fucking supernova in mine.

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