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She stiffened, then gazed up at him, her eyes shining with emotion. “I … It’s complicated.”
He took both of her hands in his. “Uncomplicate it for me.” When she hedged, he prompted, “What did he do for a living?”
“He was a history teacher at the school I teach at.”
“Really?”
Her face turned sullen. “Yep.”
Something felt off. Every time she mentioned Will, there was something that didn’t fit. Of course he had to pry. “So how’d you meet?”
“I met him the first day I started working at the school. I was sitting all alone, and he came and sat by me and introduced himself.” The center of her brows pulled together.
It wasn’t Trent’s nature to be the kind, caring one. But he found himself smiling at her and feeling grateful for Will. “He became your friend.”
“Yeah, I was new to Orange County. I’d gone to Southern Cal University, but I didn’t have a ‘home,’ per se. Mom had passed by then and … well, Grandmother always wanted me to come here, but I just didn’t see myself here then.”
He remembered how she’d mentioned that she didn’t know where her dad was. He wanted to know everything. “What did you like about Will?”
Her eyes met his. “I … don’t know.”
Hmm. There was pain there, and he wasn’t sure if it was because the man had died or if something else had happened. He wanted to pounce on that, to ask her to tell him why, but he waited. “So you started teaching art? Why? What do you like about teaching?”
She tilted her head to the side. “I think if I had to explain it, I would say that I love it when a kid realizes they can create, ya know?”
He didn’t know, but he nodded.
“It’s like this spark goes off in their mind, and even if they’re not good at it, that doesn’t matter so much in high school. What matters is they are using their imagination; they are pulling things from the unseen into the seen world.”
It was inspiring to hear her talk like this. “That is really cool.”
“I believe God gave all of us creativity within our imagination, and when we utilize our imagination, we are using the gifts of God.”
That hadn’t been something he’d thought about before.
“What?” She scrutinized his face.
“I don’t know,” he said, at a loss for words. “I don’t know if I have any creativity.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s not?”
She shook her head. “You smoked meat. That’s actually pretty creative.”
He dismissed it. “No.”
“Yes. You probably had to think of the recipe, and you’ve probably tried different ones and tweaked your recipes.”
“Of course,” he said, still doubtful.
“I bet you’re creative on your SEAL team.”
He reflected on this. “Well, I am Bravo One. I have to figure out how the whole team works together. I am the point person on strategy on each op, and I have to take everyone’s input to get the job done.”
“That is creative,” she said, chuckling. “I couldn’t do that.”
No, she couldn’t. He smiled at her. “Maybe.” He thought of something else that might be considered creative, but he didn’t want to say it. It was his mushy side that Hunter teased him about.
