Page 121 of Finding New Dreams

Mom slapped her palms on the iron table. “To what?”

Chuckling, Dad hushed her.

I showed them my screen. “To Flynn’s art show in L.A. tomorrow night. His sister bought me a ticket.”

* * *

Later that night, in my old bedroom, I sat in front of a blank canvas.

I left the window open so I could hear the crickets chirping and the old oak tree creak and sway in the summer breeze. Only a small bedside lamp provided any light.

I just wanted to feel, like Dad said. Then whatever I was feeling would help me think, right?

After several moments of silence, I began to paint. Long, broad strokes. Then shorter, delicate ones. Vague outlines took on shape. Shadows blossomed with color.

And there we were. Flynn and I, standing in my apartment surrounded by my paintings, my bed nearby.

Why did this moment bother me?

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. The smell of fresh sheets and flowers faded and morphed into warm wood, spice, and man. My heart pounded as if he were really here.

He’d said he wasn’t the man I was looking for.

And I’d thought he was right.

But my heart twisted. No. It didn’t like that answer. It wanted Flynn to be right.

That next morning had felt so wrong, letting him go. The feeling that I’d made a horrible mistake had clung to me ever since.

But it couldn’t be…couldn’t be…

Then why hadn’t I shaken it? I usually bounced back quickly. I’d learned to, very early on. It was also just my nature. But why hadn’t I with Flynn?

You’re in love with him.

My heart relaxed, as if breathing a deep sigh of relief at the words in my mind.

“I’m in love with Flynn,” I whispered to myself. Yes, it still felt right out loud.

I studied my painting. It was a bit sloppy, rushed, and the details weren’t perfect. But a story lived there. Of two hearts that had found each other.

I wanted to give it a better ending this time.

When I fell asleep in my bed that night, my dreams were nothing but light and color…and peace.

In the morning, I changed my flight.

30

FLYNN

The showcase was a hit.

I hadn’t stopped shaking hands and posing for pictures for an hour. People who’d turned their nose up at me months ago now cornered me and praised me; a few even asked for an autograph.

My client was also getting a large helping of attention as he proudly stood next to my “Tree of Courage” painting, boasting about it as if he were responsible for my work. But I didn’t care. He could have it. That painting represented a transition in my life. From old to new.

And oddly, as excited as people were about that painting, the other one was garnering just as much praise, if not more. That was the one I was going to keep. The one worth more than any offer from these people. And I’d gotten some outrageous ones.

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