It’s coming together.
A song about a damaged desperado type. He keeps himself moving by fighting for the people he loves but never lets himself get too close. For him it’s always look, don’t touch.
Too real?
Guess so because I don’t know how to wrap the song up.
No matter which direction I go, it feels like an unfinished story, and I’m not sure it’s even mine to tell.
God.
I need to get out of my head.
And that’s how I find myself at the main house with Haley and Andrea, sitting in on Andrea’s art lessons.
I may be a musician at heart, but there are some fine arts totally out of my reach.
Haley promised to keep it simple, but her idea of simple is whipping out a lifelike chalk pastel portrait in no time. It’s the big orange tabby lurking around the inn, and she’s got Mr. Mozart sketched in wild meowy detail in under an hour.
Andrea’s drawn a cat too, but hers is more like something off a goth metal album cover. All saber teeth and fur dripping like black ink with crazy yellow eyes. Total Marilyn Manson meets H.R. Giger vibes, and while it’s creepy as hell, it’s also really good.
She’s got serious talent, and she moves her brush pen with these fluid strokes that make looping, flowing lines everywhere.
Then there’s me.
Um...if I was five, my mom might stick this rickety mess of pencil scratches on the fridge.
It doesn’t even quite look like a cat.
It’s more like a...snake with legs and whiskers?
Hey, it was fun. Honestly, I didn’t come here to learn to draw anyway.
I just needed company, friendly humans, and both of these ladies have been happy to let me butt in.
Especially Andrea. She’s putting the finishing touches on razory cat claws when she asks, “So did you ever surf back in Oahu?”
I laugh—and try not to be obvious about erasing the second tail I accidentally drew on my cat. Kind of a lost cause. The paper is the kind that crumbs up and thins when you erase it.
“Oh, all the time,” I say. “Though I always stayed on the small waves. My mom worried too much and wouldn’t let me tackle the big ones. I guess she was scared I’d drown.”
Andrea wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. My mom was like that, too. She just always...” She shrugs stiffly, staring down at her sketchbook. “It’s like if I stepped out of line even a little, something awful was going to happen.”
I take her in quietly: her punky clothes, her dyed hair, and I get it a little more now.
This is her way of mourning her mom and celebrating her freedom.
Trying to figure out who she is in grief and escaping from her mother’s shadow.
Sad. If I know anything about grief, and about little girls...
Andrea would rather have her mom back than all the rainbow hair dye in the world.
“Moms worry a lot,” I say gently. “I think once you have a kid, that gene just kind of kicks on and suddenly you can’t stop thinking about all the things that could happen to them, to take them away from you.”
“But I’m not the one who went away, am I?” Andrea says. Soft, forlorn, almost more to her sketchbook than to us.
There’s a dense silence.
Haley and I glance at each other before she offers a touch of humor. “Too right. I think I’m turning into that kind of Momzilla. I’m just lucky if Cody and baby Jenna are out of my sight, I know they’re with their great-grandmother so I don’t have to worry as much.”
Andrea smiles faintly. “I doubt you could ever be a Momzilla, Hales.”
Haley grins. “Well, if you say so. My niece, Tara, might beg to differ. She has a grand old time every time she visits, laughing at how much running around I do like a chicken who’s just had a date with Robespierre.”
“The French Revolution is so cool.” The reference gets a bigger smile out of Andrea. “All those ideas and heads rolling all over the place. I mean, not that it was right to just—”
“It’s Hamilton for me, all the freaking way, thank you very much. Best part of the eighteenth century,” I say, which gets a knowing laugh from Haley. “God, do I love that musical. Got myself kicked off an organic farm in Cali once because I wouldn’t stop singing it.”
When I shift over, bumping my arm playfully on Andrea right next to me, she laughs and shoves me back with her shoulder. Some of that melancholy tension leaves her.
I wish I could make things better. At least I can be her friend.
“Y’all sound like you’re having fun,” a familiar voice drawls.
And I hate how I blush down to my toes before I even look up. Blake leans in the doorway, arms folded over his chest in a way that makes his jacket strain against his body.
Holy hell!
The thick fleece does nothing to hide his rigid shape and just how hard-packed the muscle on his body is.
Of course he’s looking right at me.
Do “eeps” come in extra large?
If this keeps up, the next fire he’ll have to put out is right in front of him.
I hold those night-dark eyes for a few moments, then drop my gaze to my sketch.
I can’t look at him.
I can’t look, or else I’ll remember sitting in my bedroom, breathing shallowly while his voice washed over me like a steaming tide.
Thankfully, Andrea’s got plenty to say to break the awkward silence.
“You’re early,” she gasps.
“I’m right on time,” Blake says lazily. “You just don’t want to go home.”
“With you? You’re right I don’t.”
Oof.
That’s harsh.
But when I look up, Blake just takes it in stride, a sort of weary patience that says he’s used to this routine. Words are no match for superdad.
And I’m barely kidding because sometimes a dad needs to be the punching bag for a daughter who’s angry at everything and nothing at once. Who else can she trust to love her when she’s done raging at the world but her father?
Maybe I’m projecting.
Maybe I’m seeing what I want to see in him, what I admire.
But I’m not imagining the gentleness in Blake’s voice when he says, “Having your favorite tonight, Violet. Pierogies. Plus, you’re supposed to be helping with carnival prep.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone perk reluctantly, but Andrea pulls it off.
She closes her sketchbook, wrinkling her nose.
“Well, I guess.” Then she glances at me, biting her lip. “Can Peace come, Dad? She was telling me about Hawaii. I want to hear more.”
I blink several times, clearing my throat. “I don’t want to impose...”
“You wouldn’t be!” Andrea says enthusiastically, and I’m starting to wonder if she wants me as a buffer between her and her father. “Just hearing your stories gives me ideas. So many crazy things happen on the islands—did you guys hear about the Navy SEAL who married this rich chick with amnesia? They even fought this crazy pirate mobster-dude and she had an illegal cat. I guess some freaking turtles saved their skins.”
Blake just stares. So do I.
Andrea shrugs. “It was all over the news! God, you guys...”
“Nice knowing the insanity isn’t restricted to Heart’s Edge, I guess.” I smile faintly. “Maybe your dad can take you to Oahu someday. It’s hard to make it sound exciting when you grew up a local like I did and everything’s so commonplace.”