Page 29 of The Ex Project (The Heartwood #3)

WREN

“So, was the date awful?” Poppy’s voice fills my ear through my phone speaker. I promised I’d fill her in on how it went as soon as I got home the other night, but I didn’t know what to make of it after Hudson dropped me off.

“No, not at all,” I say, the surprise evident in my tone. “It was … nice. I don’t know how to explain it. You know those people you can go for years without seeing, and then as soon as you’re together, it’s like you pick up right where you left off?”

“Uh huh.”

“That’s what this was like. It was easy, it was normal, I felt comfortable around him.” It was strange, feeling my anger and resentment dissipate. It felt nice, like I could let go of what’s been weighing me down lately.

“Did you talk about it?” Poppy asks, and she doesn’t have to say was ‘it’ is.

“We didn’t discuss our breakup, no,” I say. I thought he was going to bring it up—during our conversation at the gym the other day, he made it sound like he wanted to explain—but he didn’t. And I was too scared.

“Aren’t you still angry? Don’t you think it would feel good to have some answers? Some closure?” I hear Poppy steaming milk in the background of our phone call. She’s working at the café this morning.

“Yeah, I am, I guess. You’re right. Closure would be good.

” I lean my head back on the lawn chair and close my eyes in the morning sun.

The patio has quickly become my favourite place to sit.

It’s so peaceful, so calm. “I want to ask him about it, but I have a lot to deal with right now, and I don’t have the mental capacity to dredge up all that old stuff.

There’s still the vote to contend with, and then I’ll eventually have to go back to the city anyways …

It’s not worth getting into it all again. ”

“Still, you’ll feel better about leaving if you can bury the hatchet. Clear the air. Then you can stop thinking about him and know that there’s no hard feelings.”

Poppy is probably right. Still, there’s something holding me back. Asking Hudson about our breakup feels like choosing between the red pill and the blue pill, and once I make that choice, there’s no going back. I’ll uncover a truth that will make everything more complicated.

I haven’t allowed myself to consider Hudson from any other vantage point than making him my enemy. It’s easier that way, not having to confront my true feelings for him.

But that kiss.

Oh my God, that kiss.

The way his lips closed around mine, the way they parted my mouth and found entrance. The way my entire body melted into the safety of him.

Kissing Hudson made me forget the way he broke my heart.

Kissing Hudson made me want to do it again.

I realize I’ve been quiet on the other end of the phone for too long when two tones beep in my ear. I pull the phone away and see an incoming call.

“Sorry, Pops, I’m getting another call. Let’s hang out this weekend?”

“Okay, sounds good.”

I quickly say goodbye to Poppy and click to answer the call from my parents. I haven’t heard from them since they left on their trip. Based on the itinerary they left on the fridge, they should be at their final stop in Prince Edward Island by now, and about to turn around to make the drive home.

“Hi, Mom!” I answer. A jumble of voices crackles through the speaker as my mom and dad both say hello at the same time. They also still haven’t learned they don’t have to yell at the phone when they’re on speaker, so I yank my cell away from my ear while they figure out who wants to speak.

“Hi, honey,” my mom says, finally. “How are things at home?”

“Fine,” I say, the fewer details the better when it comes to my parents. They’ll always find something they can worry over, something they can twist to make it sound worse than it is. “How’s the East Coast?” I ask, wanting to shift the attention away from myself.

“Great. The drive was gorgeous. Your father has eaten his weight in lobster rolls already.” My mom gets cut off by my dad butting into the conversation now.

“What was this about a commotion at the house the other night? Dawn called me to tell me there was a firetruck outside. Are you sure everything is fine? Because I can call Claire and send her down there to help you out.” I grit my teeth together.

Fucking Dawn. I saw her out on her lawn being a nosey looky-loo, standing there in her bathrobe with curlers in her hair.

I should have known she’d rat me out to Dad. The whole town is full of busybodies.

“It’s fine, I promise. Don’t call Claire. I burnt something I was cooking, and the alarm went off.” I leave out the part where the flaming pizza caught the entire wall behind the oven on fire. Because if Hudson does his job right, they’ll never have to know.

“Have you heard from Claire?” my mom interjects now that my dad seems satisfied with my answer. In classic Miller fashion, the conversation has shifted to my sister in—I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time—under five minutes. Hot jealousy licks at my neck.

“No. I haven’t. Claire doesn’t call me,” I say, punctuating each of my sentences. It’s true. Claire and I don’t talk much, and I prefer it that way. I don’t know what we would have to talk about, anyway.

“Oh.” My mom sounds disappointed. “She’s supposed to be putting in her official application for the big promotion.

The medical director job. I’m dying to know if she got it.

What am I saying? Of course she’s going to get it.

Your sister deserves it and so much more.

We’ll have to celebrate when we get back. ”

I don’t point out that I’m also up for a big promotion, depending on how the arts centre project goes, because it won’t matter.

Even if I became the Prime Minister of Canada tomorrow, I don’t think it would trump Claire’s achievements or my parents’ desire to constantly celebrate her.

They would probably assume that the vote was rigged.

“Okay, Mom. We’ll do that,” I say, my tone flat.

“Listen, I need to go. I have a lot of work to get done today,” I lie.

I finished my arts centre design and finalized the renderings earlier this morning.

All that’s left is putting together my presentation.

But I want to get off the phone with my parents.

My chest is feeling tight again, and I need to do something to ease it.

I rub my sternum with the heel of my palm to make the squeezing sensation behind it go away.

“Okay! Bye, sweetie,” my mom says, and Dad echoes the sentiment in the background.

I hang up the phone and stand up from my lounge chair.

I was nice and relaxed out here, but now I’m feeling tense, and it’s always when I start feeling this way that a breathing attack comes on.

Can asthma be triggered by stress? It can be triggered by environmental allergens, and Dawn’s husband, Mark, was out in his backyard cutting the lawn.

I know because, over the drone of the lawn mower, I could hear her yelling at him that his lines were crooked.

I decide to go inside and head upstairs to my bedroom to find something to distract myself.

Instead of reaching for my stress ball as usual, I open my closet and start taking out the art supplies I shoved in there when I first arrived.

Drawing in the wildflower meadow yesterday was so soothing— something for my mind to focus on, and for the first time, my thoughts were quiet. Maybe it will help today as well.

My old easel is shoved in the back, so I pull it out and find my box of acrylic paints.

I make a few trips up and down the stairs until all the supplies I’ll need are spread out on the kitchen table.

I’ve leaned the easel up beside it, right next to the open French door leading out to the patio.

The natural light in here will be perfect for painting.

Pulling out tubes of paint one by one, and squirt small blobs onto my palette.

I’ve chosen a range of pinks, oranges, yellows, and purples to recreate the sunset Hudson and I watched together, and for the flowers that somehow mirrored all the colours of the sky.

I also select a few different shades of greens, for the grass, and burnt umber, a rusty shade so I can paint Ruby into the picture, too.

I tilt my head side to side, staring at the blank canvas in front of me, deciding where to start.

I finally decide on sketching a few rough lines in pencil to mark out the horizon, the mountain range, and finally the layers of rolling hillside.

Then I get to work blocking in the colours before layering smaller details over top.

The old, faded pair of denim overalls I changed into already has splatters of paint all over them, so I don’t worry about getting them dirty as I use them to wipe some paint off my hands. They’re the same ones I used to always wear painting, and today I have them on over a lace bralette.

Painting, unlike sketching, comes back to me quickly and easily, like riding a bike. The brush feels natural in my hand, and when I’m busy sweeping brush strokes onto the canvas, I don’t think about much else besides where I’m going to place the next one, and the one after that.

The painting morphs into a portrait of Ruby, with her front and centre, a silly wildflower poking out from behind her ear, the sunset highlighting her from behind. She looks angelic—it represents her perfectly.

I’m standing back to admire the last few strokes I added, and considering where it might need some tweaking, when the doorbell rings. The sun is now low in the sky, and I check the time—already evening. The day slipped away from me.

Hudson is standing on the other side of the door when I answer it, and his eyes rake over me, taking in my loose overalls, the paint splatters on them and on me, the skimpy lace bralette I have on underneath.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He smiles at me, a cheeky dimple popping on his cheek. “Did you forget I was coming by today?”