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I hung up the phone, feeling somewhat annoyed with Jared and myself if I was honest. Did I sound just like him in high school?
“Was that Jared Michaels you were speaking to?” Her voice made me catch my breath, as I wasn’t expecting her. She held a glass of amber liquid in her hand, swirling it before taking a swig.
When she caught me staring at her hand, she gave a wry smile. “I hope you don’t mind that I found the bar and poured myself a drink.”
Her hair fell forward and she tucked it behind her ear. She crossed her arms under her breasts, exposing a few inches of soft skin just above the straining button. I swallowed, but my throat felt tight.
“I don’t mind at all,” I said hoarsely. I cleared my throat. “Yeah. It was him.”
Her eyes narrowed and she brought her glass back to her mouth, taking a longer sip this time.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing. I just can’t stand the guy, that’s all.”
“He’s not so bad.”
“Easy for you to say. He didn’t make fun of you for four years.”
“He didn’t do that. Did he?” I looked up and her lips formed a straight line as she watched me.
“He called me…” She waved her hand in front of her face. “That stupid name… every chance he got. He even…”
“He even?”
“Nothing. It was a long time ago.”
“No. Say it. What did he do?”
If he had touched her, I would hurt him back. I mean… I would do that if he had touched any woman inappropriately. Right? My hands weren’t shaking just because it was Sweeney.
“He...”
I inhaled, waiting for her next words.
“He ruined it.” My mind raced, wondering what her words meant.
“Ruined what?”
“The painting,” she whispered.
I exhaled loudly. Thank God. “What painting?”
“Just forget it,” she said and put her drink down. “How can I help?”
“No,” I said, setting down the knife. “What painting?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s stupid.”
“Obviously not to you.”
She sighed. “Remember the art project we had in first year? The one I worked all night on with my mother?” Her eyes softened and she looked away as though lost in thought. “I decided to paint my version of The Mona Lisa. She went to every craft store to find the right shade of brown for me.”
“Who did?”
She smiled. “My mom.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. I didn’t know Sweeney could get this sentimental about paint. Or maybe she could since it had to do with a school project.
“Anyway, Ms. Reynolds, the art teacher, displayed it at the front of the school next to the basketball trophies. But the next day someone had written… you know… across it.” She looked away. “It was ruined,” she breathed. “Jared teased me about it in the cafeteria later.”
