His attention returns to me, and I can tell he has questions, but he only nods firmly. “I am your friend,” he says. “And I’m going to be more, when you’re ready.”
With that, he returns to painting.
He said when. Not if.
Why does that confidence make my panties so damp? I blow out a breath and go back to working on my pond, viewing the vivid color through a lens of horniness.
“Did you eat breakfast, Birdie?”
“Um…” Shoot. I can hear my brother growling at me all the way from Florida. “No. I’ve been kind of distracted.”
Jerimiah throws me some worried side eye and crouches down to rummage through his backpack. I watch with a tight throat as he removes a sugar-free breakfast bar and a can of Diet Coke. “I know you’re not supposed to drink juice, unless your blood sugar is low—”
“That’s perfect,” I interrupt breathlessly, watching as he stows the paintbrush under his arm and unwraps the bar, handing it over. “Did you bring…this stuff for me?”
He shrugs. “I was hoping you’d show up sooner or later, either to yell at me or let me apologize. I wanted to be prepared either way.” He eyes my purse where I’ve left it on the ground. “You need to check your blood sugar first, right?”
“Yes.” He holds my brush as I go through the quick, practiced motions of pricking my fingers and leaving a tiny sample on the test strip. There’s a beep and the number blinks up at me. Eight-seven. “I’m good to go. Thank you,” I whisper, hitting the buttons that will send the correct amount of insulin to my pump. “That was really thoughtful.”
And seriously, I’m not sure my defenses can take too many more hits from this man. Already he’s disarmed me by trying to repair the mural damage. Now he’s brought me a diabetic-friendly breakfast and I’m gasping for air on the battlefield croaking requests for a medic.
“Um.” I replace my meter in my purse and take a huge bite of the breakfast bar, swallowing. “W-was it your dream to play college football?”
“I like the sport. I wouldn’t say it was a dream.” He shifts beside me and touches his brush back to the wall. “I’ve always wanted to coach, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, I don’t talk much. Coaching requires a lot of it.”
“You talk the normal amount.”
“To you, Birdie. Just to you.”
Okay, he’s making it really hard to stand by that whole let’s be friends business. “Well, we’ll keep practicing and it’ll get easier. With other people.” His thighs flex and I try not to make it obvious that I’m staring, wondering what that slide of muscle would feel like against my palm. “If you want to coach, you should coach.”
It’s almost visible, the way Jerimiah seems to tuck that away for further review later. “Why are you painting every corner of this mural except your own?” He tucks his tongue into his cheek. “Seems you would know that section best of all.”
“I do. I know it by heart.”
There’s a rumble overhead and we both look up at the darkening clouds. He raises an eyebrow at me, I shrug and we keep working. But the conversation we were having before lingers between us unfinished. I’ve spoken to Jason and Naomi a lot about Natalie, but I’ve never let them all the way in. I’m not sure what holds me back from telling them I’m living halfway for her, but whatever that hesitation is called, I don’t seem to have it with Jerimiah.
“The tree I painted has two branches. One for me. One for my sister.” I hear droplets of rain begin to land on the pavement behind me, but thankfully none of them reach the mural, thanks to the decent overhang above us. “Everything I do…she kind of comes along with me, you know? I’m still taking her into consideration. If she were still here, she would be doing the same for me.”
There’s enough sympathy in Jerimiah’s eyes to fill the clouds above. “How?”
“She didn’t wake up.” I give a jerky shrug. “She went to bed healthy, so there’s no way to be satisfied with any explanation. Sudden Death Syndrome.” I force myself to smile. “Very in character for Natalie. She was really into drama.”
I feel Jerimiah’s lips in my hair and the turbulence inside me stills, like the smoothing of ocean water after a wave passes. “I feel her around when you talk. I’m sorry we can’t see her.”
The wind rushes out of me. “Thank you. For saying the exact perfect thing.” I use my wrist to swipe the dampness from beneath my eye. “How do you do that?”
“‘They should be scared by their lack of good judgment.’ You said that to me.” His fingers trace my cheek, gently turning me to face him. “You’re not so bad at saying the right thing. Remembering that made it a lot easier to paint a shitty rainbow in front of two hundred people.”