Page 156 of Beyond the Stroke

No, my thoughts are drawn to the woman who paints in overalls and bare feet. The one who kisses like she doesn’t trust it but needs it anyway. The woman who framed her own damnwork and was finally brave enough to show it to me. And one day, I hope she shows the world.

My wife.

Swimming has always come first. That was the entire reason for marrying Summer.

Maybe this is what it feels like when the grip on your old dreams loosens, not because you don’t care anymore, but because something new is taking root.

Owens was right. I need to get my head on straight. To focus.

But that doesn’t mean it’s the end of everything.

It’s only the beginning.

forty-two

. . .

SUMMER

Rory wasn’t kidding. The overlook is high above Coral Cove, hidden off a narrow trail only known to locals. It’s quiet except for the rustling of leaves and the distant crash of the waves against the shore. The view is stunning; rolling dunes, the endless stretch of ocean, with the sky open and wild above.

“Will this do?” he asks, a curious smile on his face as he takes in the awe on mine.

He pulls out the blanket he promised to bring, then sets my portable easel on one corner of it.

I smooth out my features, deciding to play it cool.

“It’s okay.” I shrug casually, before motioning to the picture-perfect scene.

“Just okay?” He presses his lips together and takes a step closer to me.

His proximity makes me crack. A huge smile pulls at my lips. “I mean, if you’re into breathtaking views and insane scenery.” I turn to motion to our surroundings.

When I glance back, he’s right there. His hands move to cup my face while his eyes study me intently.

“I didn’t have to come all the way out here for that.”

He kisses me and it’s playful and teasing, with a ripple of that electric chemistry that has always been pulsing between us.

My belly does that swoopy thing again. It’s become a familiar sensation. One that I associate with Rory. And happiness.

Rory makes me happy.

The thought has me dizzy.

So, I do what I do best, and focus on setting up my art supplies to paint.

I rummage through my paints to select a palette of colors that fit the scene. Soft blues and briny greens, streaks of golden tan for the dry grasses down below, and a deep rust for the pop of color a far-off umbrella provides.

As my brush strokes over the canvas, it occurs to me that for the first time in a while, I’m not painting something to leave behind for strangers.

I’m painting something for me.

I glance to where Rory has settled onto the blanket beside me with a book in his hand.

Because ofhim.

We’re quiet for a while. Me painting while Rory reads. It’s that contented silence I appreciate about us.

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