Page 35

I’m definitely not an artist. Mother found the arts to be a waste of time. Not all arts, of course—music was fine, as long as it was classical. Homemaking counted too, in her mind at least.

But drawing? Painting? Anything that didn’t serve a clear purpose or prepare me for the role I was supposed to fill? Frivolous.

She used to ask, “Why waste effort on something that won’t serve your future husband?”

And even now, fingers moving slowly over the page, I hear the question echo in my head. I hear her voice in the back of my mind, critical and disapproving.

I press the crayon harder than I mean to.

Why waste effort?

I don’t know, Mother. Maybe just because it’s enjoyable.

I freeze the moment the thought lands. My hand stills, crayon hovering in the air. I flinch instinctively, as if speaking inside my own head could conjure her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she developed the ability to pick up on my less-than-ladylike thoughts from miles away.

After a breath, I relax and return to my drawing.

Mae comes into the room shortly after. She pauses in the doorway and watches me for a minute. This time, I don’t acknowledge her. I just keep drawing.

But that doesn’t work either. She turns and walks away without engaging.

The ache in my chest tightens but I keep going. Flower after flower until the page is full.

I’ll try again tomorrow.

Warm air rolls across the backs of my legs as Finn pulls the towels out of the dryer and drops them into the basket between us. He hums under his breath—some tune I don’t recognize—while I fold a hand towel with slow precision.

I reach for another and glance up at him.

He’s still humming, still smiling, still being effortlessly Finn.

I don’t know how he does that. How he makes everything feel lighter without even trying.

My eyes drift past him, to the window. Jonah’s outside, working on something at the edge of the porch. He crouches near a toolbox, one knee braced, head bent. His sweatshirt is pushed to the elbows and his focus is absolute.

He doesn’t know I’m watching him.

Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

I look away quickly, heart beating fast as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be.

It happens again a few minutes later. Boone walks down the hall without saying a word, his boots tracking mud across the floor. He doesn’t even look at me, but I feel the weight of him anyway.

Something twists low in my stomach.

And then I feel worse.

Because I’m standing in a laundry room with a man whose tongue has been inside of my lady bits, who touched me until I broke open—and I’m thinking about other men.

I fold another towel.

Maybe what happened didn’t mean as much to Finn as it did to me. Maybe this is just what he does. He smiles, he flirts, he touches gently and says all the right things. Maybe Finn makes women feel safe and seen and doesn’t realize the damage he leaves in his wake.

He’s the kind of man who pulls people in without realizing they’re orbiting him. Who tells you you're free and means it, but forgets what it feels like to be lost without someone to belong to.

He’s a bright light. I’m a moth. I’m drawn in without thinking, and convinced the warmth is mine to keep. It’s not his fault I don’t know where to land.

I’ve never been allowed to want anything for myself until now. Right now, every pull feels urgent. Every kindness feels deeply personal. Every glance feels too easily mistaken for a promise.