Page 139
I set my purse on the entry table. Kell’s key is still in the ceramic bowl beside it. When I look up, the woman in the mirror still surprises me.
I don’t want the old haircut back.
Kell made me question how many choices I’d called mine when really they were just the ones I already knew how to make.
This one is mine.
I miss him.
And I’m done pretending I don’t.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Laura
By Monday afternoon, I’ve spent so much time thinking about whether I should go see Kell that the question itself has become irritating. Nothing happened over the weekend to change what I figured out Saturday.
I miss him.
Waiting isn’t making that any less true, so after work I drive home, change into dark jeans and boots, and put on my new leather jacket. My haircut changes the effect enough that I stop in front of the mirror. The clipped side still surprises me when I turn my head, but I like the woman looking back at me.
I pick up my purse before I can think myself out of going.
Kell’s studio is three blocks off Main Street in the older commercial section, less than ten minutes from my condo. I know the address, and I’ve stood in the doorway before while he showed me what he was working on, but I’ve never really seen the place as his home.
That starts bothering me as soon as I park.
For weeks, Kell lived in my house. I knew where he left his boots, which cabinet he opened first when he wanted something to eat, and which side of the sofa he claimed when we watched television.
Now he has a home I’ve never seen.
Music reaches me before I get to the door. The Hu, naturally.
I knock. A few seconds later, the volume drops and footsteps approach. Kell opens the door wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt streaked with orange and green paint. More paint marks one forearm and the back of his hand, with a streak of green near his jaw.
His gaze comes to my face.
“You cut your hair.”
“I did.”
He takes his time looking at it, from the closely clipped side to the longer sweep across the top. “I like it.”
I knew he would, but pleasure still moves through me at his words. “Thank you.”
His attention drops to the leather jacket. “You wore your new one.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
I hate how much I like hearing that from him.
Kell steps aside. “Do you want to come in?”
“Yes.”
The studio is bigger than it looked from outside, with high ceilings, concrete floors, exposed brick, and enough open wall space that Kell can lose all sense of reasonable canvas dimensions without inconveniencing anyone. Paintings lean everywhere, several large enough that I have to move farther into the room to take them in. A long worktable is crowded with brushes, jars, tubes of paint, and rags, while paint marks the tabletop, the floor, and a section of brick behind it.
