“Bryan, I can explain.”
I frantically searched for a name. A sign. A scribble. Anything to denote who might’ve done this painting. Anything that might denote who the fuck had painted this personal scene I’d had tattooed on my lower back.
But the moment I flipped the painting over and saw his name, I felt it slip from my fingers and crash to the ground.
“John,” I said, whispering.
John had painted that picture.
I rushed back into the storage unit as Hailey clamored for the painting on the ground. I could hear her crying and talking, but her words were falling on deaf ears. I turned around the picture of the ebony woman, taking in my brother’s signature on the back of the canvas as my mind ran back to the conversation we had over that beer.
That fucking Guinness beer that—
All at once, it hit me like a ton of bricks. The reason Hailey locked up the first time I mentioned John’s name. The reason why all these paintings resonated with a part of me I didn’t understand.
The reason she was hiding that fucking painting of me in her art studio.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“They were done by one of my therapy students,” she said.
“Where were these done?” I asked.
I slowly turned toward her as tears poured down her face. She was looking down at the cabin painting, brushing the dirt off it while tears dripped down her nose. She was shaking in her spot, fearful of the tone of voice coming from my lips. But I didn’t care. I didn’t give a damn how my voice affected her.
I wanted to know how my brother’s paintings were in her possession.
I wanted to know the truth.
“That portrait you were painting of me,” I said. “That was me at my brother’s memorial ceremony a few months ago.”
I watched her nod as my anger bubbled up through my throat.
“You told me you weren’t there,” I said breathlessly.
“I’m so sorry, Bryan. You just showed up on my doorstep that day, and I was so shocked, and I didn’t know what to do. I panicked, thinking if I told you I knew your brother, it would open this whole can of worms I wasn’t ready to talk about.”
“You knew him,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, whispering.
“He took your art therapy classes.”
“Yes,” she said.
“You knew who my brother was!” I roared.
She stumbled out of the storage unit as I lunged at her. I yanked the painting from her and clutched it in my hands, threatening to pierce right through the canvas as her wild, tearful shot directly up into mine. She’d lied to me. This woman I poured my soul into. This woman I lost my body into. This woman who I’d ripped my chest open for lied to me.
Deceived me.
Tricked me from the very beginning.
“What? Did you think I wouldn’t help you with your project?” I asked.
“No, that’s not it,” she said.
“Did you think that you could somehow heal me?” I asked.