I settled into the cushion again, watching her take to the stool before the piece she’d been working on before I showed up.
Painting had been a passion of hers since she was a young girl. I cocked my head to the side and watched in awe as she made another graceful stroke across the canvas. Even covered from head to toe in paint, she was pure perfection. As if to tease me while I gawked at her, Sam propped both feet on the bars beneath the stool, her bare thighs peeking out from either side of that oversized shirt, leaving me to wonder if all she had on underneath were underwear. I swallowed hard and continued to contemplate.
“So what’d you do all day?” she asked.
She wasn’t upset, just curious as to why I waited until nearly ten at night to return. The truth? I needed to clear my head a bit before coming back, not wanting her to mistake my sullen mood for something that it wasn’t.
“Cleaned up like I said, and ran a few errands I forgot about,” I explained. “I had a few shirts to take to the cleaners and I needed a new pair of ear-buds – I think I left mine in a cab.”
“Those cab drivers have to make a fortune just in lost and found items,” she laughed.
“Tell me about it.”
I cleared my throat and continued to stare at her bronzy thighs, imagining them wrapped around my waist…or my neck…either one. It wasn’t until she turned to stare that I realized I’d missed a question.
“What’d you say?”
She smiled. “I asked if you were thirsty. Want me to get you something.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m good just watching you.”
She smiled a little before turning back to her masterpiece. I cleared my throat and tried to think of something to say instead of just stalking her with my eyes.
“Did your parents convert the attic into something else or is it still set up for you?” I asked, trying to distract myself from…well…her.
When she reached aside to change brushes, I could see her smiling. “Nope. They haven’t touched it. My dad says my mom pitched a fit when he tried to move his study up there – like I’m gonna move back home one day or something.”
I chuckled, thinking back to how much her mother cried during the weeks leading up to Sam leaving for college. “Well, at least it’s there for when you visit. Do you make it back often?” I asked.
She paused with her hand midway to the canvas. Eventually whatever thought she had vanished and she touched the brush to the painting. “I uh…I don’t visit. Not anymore,” she admitted.
I frowned. “Ever?”
She shook her head silently. “It’s been a couple years now.” There was a pause in conversation before she added, “The last time I was there, I ran into Mrs. Martin – Antonio’s mother.”
Instantly, I regretted bringing it up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t –“
Sam waved me off. “No, it’s fine. I’m okay talking about it now. Therapy has helped a lot with that.”
I watched her in awe, wondering if she had any idea how strong she was.
“But we’ll just say that that run-in was traumatic enough that it cured me of homesickness…quick,” she added under her breath. “I just keep thinking that one day it’ll be him that I run into and…I don’t know if that would be as easy to get over.”