I scanned the room again, admiring the vibrant work that decorated the wall, imagining the countless hours that had gone into their conception inside these walls. “It’s a great place to create.”
“It will be. But it’s been little more than a shrine, and that’s why I couldn’t set foot in here for so long. It’s time to change a few things.”
I lifted my chin toward the center of the room. “You painting?”
He grinned slowly. “No, you are. This place needs some color.”
I glanced around at the walls.
“The floor,” he said.
I frowned and met his gaze. “The floor?”
“I’ve got all the colors. Trays for mixing. A dozen brushes. I want you to make it yours. Do whatever you want. Picasso, Pollack. Do your thing.”
My pulse raced, not because of the intoxicating effect he usually had on me, but because I hadn’t picked up a brush in…years. I swallowed over the knot in my throat and tucked my hands into my jeans.
“But I don’t have a plan or anything. I’d need time to come up with something.”
He shook his head, undeterred. “You don’t need one. Just do whatever you feel like. Right now.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “I’m sure I don’t need to point out that this is a huge canvas.”
He circled his arm behind me and ushered me to the center of the room. I walked stiffly, keeping my hands stuffed safely in my pockets. I stared at the clean white floor, trying to catch up with what he was asking of me.
“You can do this. Want me to help get you started?”
I nodded without making eye contact. I needed all the help I could get right now.
“All right. Pick a color.”
I stared down at the gallons of paint. Could I really not even pick out a color? I glanced up at Ian, who was waiting for my answer.
“What’s your favorite color?” I asked.
He laughed softly. “Blue.” Without asking, he knelt down, popped the top of the can open, and handed me a brush.
I took it, though it felt foreign in my hands. I stood frozen in place while he opened the rest. Every color in the rainbow was set before me. Still, I couldn’t move. Seconds passed in awkward silence while I contemplated my next move.
“What’s wrong?”
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek because I couldn’t put it into words. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I never would be.
This place meant so much to Ian, and here I was, challenged to put my imprint on it. I felt beyond unworthy for the task.
“I’m not sure I can do this. This place means so much to you…”
“Liv.” He brought his hands to my face and forced my gaze to meet his. “Listen to me. It’s a floor. It will see wear and tear. It’ll get dirty. The paint will chip. And one day, a long time from now, maybe it will be painted fresh. Today, I want you to make it yours. Give yourself permission to do this…for me.”
I wanted to say yes, even as I doubted my ability to do what he was asking. I wanted to thank him for caring enough to see the empty place where creating used to fill me up and make me whole. But my throat was tight with emotion and I couldn’t speak, so I nodded and swallowed hard.
“Blue.” He pointed to the brush and then to the waiting blue paint.
Brush in hand, I knelt on the concrete. The floor was cool on my knees where my ripped jeans didn’t cover. He’d told me dress in clothes that I could get dirty, and now I knew why.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to catch the ideas floating across my mind. Lines and colors. Shapes and feelings. I pushed the paint tins out of the way so I could focus on the center, which seemed like the best place to start.
Ian’s steps moved away from me, and a second later, I jumped at the sound of music echoing off the walls. Loud rock filled the space. At the workbench, Ian stood beside a stereo.
“Okay?” he shouted over the music.
I smiled broadly, happiness bubbling up inside me. “It’s good.”
Returning my focus to the center, I dipped the brush into the paint, all the way to the metal, and pulled it back. A solid cyan coated it. The music was loud enough to silence the little voice in my head that tried to tell me I couldn’t possibly do this. Not after so long.
Instead, I thought in visuals. This place had meant pain for Ian for so long, so I searched for happiness and found a sliver of memory.
The ocean and long summer days at the beach with my brothers. Those few days every year as a child when everything felt perfectly right. Salt on my skin, laughing and exploring the shore. My mom’s smile was warmer than the sun, and my dad’s time was only ours. Everything around the memory blurred, growing darker when I started to think about how we’d grown apart in the years since. I returned to the happy memory. It was decidedly blue.