Page 8 of Falling Like Leaves (Bramble Falls #1)

Sloane talks nonstop on the way home from school. About Asher (he finally got his license), about her classes (she has a notoriously hard Spanish teacher), about the newest book in her favorite series (it releases next week), and about my new friend.

“Is Jake not ridiculously hot?” she asks.

“He is,” I agree. “Not really my type, though.” Not that I have a type, but if I did, he wouldn’t be it.

“Please. He’s everyone’s type. Well, everyone who’s into guys, anyway. Athletic, funny, nice.” Taking her eyes off the road, she turns to me. “You can’t judge him for not bringing supplies to class.”

“It’s a major red flag,” I half joke.

Sloane rolls her eyes playfully as we pull into the driveway. We grab our backpacks and head inside, where Aunt Naomi is sitting in the living room, still sorting the autumn decorations.

“Hey, girls! How was your first day?” she asks, grabbing a pile of orange candlesticks of various lengths from a box.

“Good for me. But don’t ask Ellis. She had to share her school supplies,” Sloane says with a twinkle in her eye.

I slap her shoulder. “Shut up. Who doesn’t bring supplies to class on the first day!”

Aunt Naomi holds up a finger. “I’m with Ellis on this one.”

Sloane shakes her head. “Of course. You two type-A organizational freaks would agree that not bringing supplies is blasphemy. But it’s Jake, and if you’re going to be friends with him, you might as well get used to it.”

“Jake Keller?” Aunt Naomi asks. “In that case, I take it back. He’s sweet and helpless, like a lost puppy. You might as well keep a notebook and pencil just for him in your backpack.”

I slip off my shoes. “I think maybe I need new friends.”

Sloane laughs, and I follow her into the living room.

“So, can I ask a favor, Aunt Naomi?”

She sets down the coasters she’s holding and looks at me. “Anything.”

“Would you be willing to write me a recommendation letter for me to add to my college applications if I volunteer for the town’s fall events?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s a fantastic idea,” she says. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of that earlier. The Bramble Falls tourism board would be a great addition to your résumé. Of course I’ll write a letter. Does that mean you’ve reconsidered then?”

“Yeah, I think it’ll be good experience.” Or at least look like good experience to colleges.

“Excellent! I’ll get you assigned to something for Saturday,” she says.

“Actually, could I work with Jake?” I ask.

Aunt Naomi looks at me, then at Sloane, who presses her lips together trying not to smile.

“It’s not like that,” I tell them. The guy doesn’t even bring a pencil to class, I want to scream for the umpteenth time.

“Mm-hmm,” Sloane hums.

“I believe you, sweetie,” Aunt Naomi says unconvincingly. “And, yes, I’ll see if I can make sure you’re with him.”

“Thank you. Do you know where my mom is?”

“I think up in her room,” she says.

“Okay, thanks.”

I’m climbing the steps, calling Dad for the hundredth time, when Sloane shouts, “I have Jake’s number if you want it!”

“No thank you!” I yell down behind me as Dad’s voicemail pours through the phone speaker. Again. I end the call with a sigh.

Upstairs, Mom’s door is cracked.

I knock lightly. “Mom? You in there?”

Classical music plays quietly from inside. I’ve never heard my mom listen to classical music in my life, but she’s humming along. She knows this piece.

I push the door slowly open, revealing my mom in a chair at the window, a large canvas on an easel in front of her. A palette sits on the nightstand beside her. She brushes a bright red across the canvas, completely lost to the world. The same way I get when I’m creating clothing designs.

Or used to get , I should say, seeing as I haven’t been doing much creating lately.

The music crescendoes, growing bigger. Louder. Intense. And Mom’s strokes become wider. Longer. Bolder.

I stand out of her line of vision as I watch her blend colors and create shapes and strategically leave negative space until a painting of a river flowing through a small town with a cityscape in the distant background is rendered on the canvas in front of her.

“Wow,” I breathe. Mom’s an artist . She’s basically Bob Ross, and I had no idea.

Mom jumps, spinning around with her hand over her chest. “Ellis. You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry. I knocked….”

She blows out a deep breath. “It’s okay.”

“Why didn’t I know you could do that?” I ask, motioning at the colorful painted landscape.

She gives me an almost sad smile. “I didn’t know for sure if I still could. I haven’t painted in almost two decades. But I filled out an application at the arts-and-crafts store today, and just being in there made me want to pick up a brush again.”

“You’re so good at it,” I say, stepping closer.

I inch toward the canvas until I’m close enough to lean in and take in the intricate details.

The way she used white highlights in the water to make it appear to shimmer.

The way some strokes of the tree branches are heavier than others, adding dimension and demanding attention.

The subtle yellow lines that blend seamlessly into the background while still looking like rays of sunlight.

“Thanks, honey. How was your first day?”

I turn away from the canvas. “It was okay. But I was wondering if you’ve talked to Dad. He hasn’t answered any of my calls.”

Something unreadable passes over Mom’s face before she shakes her head. “No, I haven’t. I’m sure he’s just busy with work. He’ll call you back.”

“Yeah. I guess so,” I say, trying to shake off the feeling that something is wrong—something other than the fact that I should be in New York with him right now. “Well, I better go study.”

“Studying on the first day?” Mom asks, her eyebrows near her hairline.

I laugh at how appalled she is by the notion. “If I’m going to be here, without AP classes and a boatload of extracurriculars, I’m going to need straight As.”

“You’ve always gotten straight As.”

“Because I’ve always studied. Even on the first day,” I remind her.

She sighs. “Fine. But I support you getting a B once in a while, you know?”

“Over my dead body, Mother.”

She laughs but says, “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” I head for the door, stopping just before exiting. “Hey, what are you going to do with that painting when you’re done?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably throw it away so it doesn’t clutter up Aunt Naomi’s house.”

“Can I have it?” I ask.

“Um, sure, but why? It’s not anything spectacular,” she says, frowning at the canvas.

I want to tell her I think it’s spectacular.

I want to tell her I love that the cityscape reminds me of home.

I want to tell her that it makes me feel sad because the small town is in the forefront, and I want to tell her I love that she was able to create something that makes me feel anything because art has never done that before.

But instead I tell her, “It will liven up my attic bedroom.”

She nods with a hopeful smile. “Yeah, okay. I’ll bring it up after I’m done and it dries.”

“Awesome.”

Heading to the hallway, I glance back at the painting one last time, where the fading city feels like a depiction of a distant memory.

I want to tell her that I’m afraid of that becoming a reality.