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“It doesn’t matter.” I said. “Unless you have an art gallery, my painting is staying right here.”

His mischievous grin was unmistakable even in the dim light. He ran his hands through his tousled locks.

“There’s something I want to show you.” he urged, extending his hand. “It might help you see things clearer.”

I hesitated, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts. However, the allure of his mysterious plan was far too enticing. With bated breath, I placed my hands in his, allowing him to lead me into the unknown.

A quiet solemnity shrouded the cemetery. I didn’t know what we were doing here, but Asher steered me through the graves as if he could walk to this place with his eyes closed. My gaze fixed on the rows of tombstones, and I resisted the urge to shiver. Why did he have to bring me here at night?

“It’s not too far.” He whispered.

I focused my eyes on the back of his head as he led me into the heart of the cemetery. The sound of our footsteps echoed against the silence as the snow crunched under our weight. We reached our destination as he stood in front of a tombstone. James Sullivan. My gaze fixed on the inscription etched into the marble.

“This is where I had to bury my best friend.”

My heart ached at the raw emotion in his voice. I didn’t want to apologize. Everyone apologized as if it was their fault.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

His eyes glistened with unshed tears, but I didn’t push him to talk. I stood gazing at the name of his late friend as he gathered his thoughts.

“Last year wasn’t my best moment.” He said. “I was going through some stuff that led me down a destructive path.”

I shuffled closer to him.

“We went to a party in another town over that night to celebrate our championship win.” He continued. “I had more to drink than I would care to admit.”

I listened with rapt attention. My heart broke with every word.

“James insisted on taking me home, but I didn’t want to leave yet.” He said. “He convinced me it was time to go home.”

He took a deep breath and tilted his head as if forcing the tears to run back.

“We’d driven for ten minutes before a truck came charging from the side.” He sniffed. “The doctors told me he took most of the impact.”

He tucked his hands into his front pockets and closed his eyes.

“I was supposed to be the designated driver that night.” He said, through quivering breaths.

He looked down at the marble.

“It should be me in the ground.” His voice was a whisper as he stared into the distance.

My heart ached at the pain in his voice. My eyes brimmed with tears. I reached out to touch his arm, offering as much solace as I could.

“You can’t blame yourself,” I said, my voice filled with compassion and understanding. “We hear about these situations every day, but we never expect it to happen to us.”

He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. It’s as if he was battling with the torrent of emotions threatening to consume him.

“One of the last things he told me was that I was wasting my life.” He said, choking on sorrow. “How I was doing everything to appease my dad.”

“Did you agree with him?”

“I did.” He said, his voice fading with the breeze.

“That’s why you quit hockey?”

He sighed and shrugged off his jacket. I watched as he rolled up his sleeve. My eyes followed his movements, curiosity flickering in their depths as I gazed at the long scar that ran along his left arm.