Finding Forever

Chapter 12

Every stroke of my paintbrush melts memories from last night, confessing everything to Maisie only to have Ryan crossly leave me on the dancefloor. I heaved, dipping my paintbrush onto my pallet and mixing blue with a bit of black. The dark colours on my canvas are reflective of my current mood.

I tossed and turned all night long. Hot and bothered, riddled with uneasiness. My duvet felt like it was smothering me. I can't begin to remember how many times I kicked that feathered weight from my body. Nothing could make me comfortable. My mind raced with Ryan's last words on the dancefloor: I'm done.

Was he "done" with our friendship? Or was he "done" with dancing?

I gaze through the patio doors and onto the balcony overlooking the downtown core. I mimic the shimmering skyscrapers and rolling hills on canvas, hoping my random brush strokes will turn into something interesting.

Being alone in the quiet of our apartment was greatly needed. Maisie is spending the day golfing with Jayce. I am relieved to have the apartment to myself. I even powered down my cell phone to avoid the outside world. Having some time to think, away from everyone and everything, in the seclusion of our kitchen with my paintbrush, can sometimes be the only way to calm my racing thoughts. And the memory of Ryan's abrupt and cold departure from the dancefloor hasn't made my thoughts any less chaotic. If anything, he's front row and center, owning every thought I have left.

My body tensed at my front door clicking open, followed by heavy footsteps trampling into my apartment.

"Jonesy, you home?" Ryan's familiar voice shouts from the entryway.

What the hell is he doing here? He better be ready to apologize for being such an epic asshole. Because I don't think I can even look at him right now. I take a deep and steadying breath, telling myself to play it cool and not show him emotion. The last thing I need is Ryan thinking his words from last night had any effect on me.

"Yeah, hey, in the kitchen," I shout over my shoulder.

I hear his footsteps as they walk through the living room and around the corner. I see him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, as he smiles at me with one of his most charmingly rehearsed expressions.

"It looks like a rainbow threw up on your smock," he says, studying my grubby painting attire.

I turn away from him, unimpressed and brush a few more strokes on the canvas. "It's called paint, wise-ass."

He laughs, pushing off from the doorway and moves inches away from my side. "Perfect timing then," he says, smirking down at me, amused by my distaste for him. "You can finally get started on my portrait. Clothes on, of course."

"Of course."

"Only stipulation," he says, flopping down on a chair beside me. "I get a seventy-five percent cut from every print sold."

"Considering no one in their right mind would purchase one," I quip. "I guess you got yourself a deal."

"Ha-ha," he says dryly, biting his lower lip. He lets out another quick laugh, dropping his head slightly, then lifts his dark brown eyes to mine. "Shall I lay across the kitchen table or dramatically lean against the patio doors to give you Zoolander eyes?"

I can't help but laugh, tapping the end of my paintbrush on the easel. After being so damn angry with him, followed by a sleepless night, he somehow still manages to bring a smile to my face. Besides, I guess there is no point in holding grudges; Ryan was completely drunk. Which, of course, is no excuse, but when I see that playful light in his eyes and the warmth I feel when he smiles at me like that, it's so easy to forget he ever angered me.