Page 74 of Cherry Picking
Looking at my little brother fills me with another kind of regret.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been here more.”
He shrugs again, but I can see the way his cheek caves in as he pinches it between his teeth.
“Why don’t you grab your sketchbook and show me what you’ve been working on?”
Parker’s ears turn pink, but his posture perks up. “I have a better idea.”
And that’s how I end up in the backyard lying on the grass with paint in my hair and on my clothes while Parker spreads handfuls of the mess over some kind tarp/canvas thing he laid across the porch.
“Do I get to see it yet?”
“Nope.”
I close my eyes and tip my face toward the sun, the gentle evening breeze nipping at my cheeks and the skin beneath the neck of my sweater.
Tomorrow might be Christmas Eve, but Colorado weather still dictates cloudy skies with a touch of sunshine and just enough chill to turn your heaters up but without a lick of snow in sight.
There’s a fifty percent chance tomorrow, and seventy-two percent on Christmas day, but I’m not holding my breath.
Parker brought me out here, laid me on the tarp, and then proceeded to fling paint at me and stomp around for ten minutes before letting me move away from the line of fire—but I have to stay out here and close my eyes until he’s finished with whatever project he’s working on.
If there’s one thing to be said about us Eastons, it’s that we’re hard-headed, persistent, and passionate as all hell when we go after something.
Peeking one eye open to watch my brother’s intense look of concentration fills a crack in my chest I’d never known was there.
“I said no looking.”
I snort back a laugh and throw an arm over my eyes. “I’m not. You’d think you’re remaking the Mona Lisa over there.”
“Much better than that boring old thing, thank you very much. Besides, you can look. It’s done for now. I need this paint to dry before doing anything else.”
It takes me a minute to stand, my knee fairly healed but still has its weak spots. I haven’t been cleared for any kind of strenuous activity yet, and would you know it? Going from lying down, to your knees, to your feet is actually surprisingly strenuous.
Once I do and walk back up to the porch, I can see why Parker loves fiddling with art. The canvas is probably a good sixand a half feet tall and at least as wide. There’s a clear outline where he had me lay on it, but instead of being drawn with any kind of pencil or marker, it’s outlined by splashes and splatters of paint.
Black.
Yellow.
Maroon.
Around the outline are more solid smears from when Parker was shuffling around, and it’s rough, but it takes the shape of the Hornet’s mascot. Slightly enlarged and distorted, like it’s supposed to be blurred behind the outline.
My number, fifty-five, is scrawled out in various random places around the canvas.
“What is this?”
Parker stares at it, pointedly not looking at me as he fights the twitch of his lips.
“A vision board of sorts. A mural of Riley Easton as he’s been known all my life: the big, bad hockey player. We’d put some other stuff on the outside, but honestly I don’t know you well enough to do it on my own.”
I throw my arm around him, and he squeaks while throwing both hands in the air, but then he settles and leans into me, even if he grumbles a little.
“I love your creativity.” I rough up his hair and let him go. “We’ll brainstorm together. How does that sound?”
He nods. “We can get back to it tomorrow. Paint needs to dry, and I need to roll it up and protect it from the weather.”
