After running away from Summer and a lifetime of future disappointment, I retreated to my studio. I told myself it was because I was on a deadline and needed to work but, truthfully, I’ve come to recognize that I’m weak where Summer’s concerned. My dick wants to take control, and the only thing I can do is lock myself away. It’s been three days since the swimming lesson. Three days of agonizing fantasies with only my hand for company. Maybe that’s why I invite the kid inside.

“Come out from behind the door,” I tell him. “My studio isn’t the safest place.”

Colby creeps out from behind the door, a guilty look on his face. “We was just wondering if you were still alive.”

“I am.” From the video feeds, Summer is still working, but she’s stopped talking to me during the day. Not that I blame her. I would’ve quit by now. I keep waiting for that to happen, and when it does, I’m going to end up doing things I shouldn’t, like kidnapping her and locking her in the west wing.

Colby inspects the dark space, his hand hovering over a hammer here or a metal pinchers there. Some self-preservation instinct has kicked in and his usual uninhibited curiosity is banked, although I can tell he’s dying to handle everything.

“How come you have so many tools? I thought you were an artist.”

“I am. Not all artist use paint brushes. That painting is kind of a lost skill these days. Most of your contemporary artists are using mixed media. Do you know what that is?”

The seven-year-old shakes his head.

“It’s when you use more than one type of thing so you are not just putting paint on a canvas but you could also be using metal scraps of buttons or grass.”

“Grass?” Colby’s eyes light up.

“Yeah, there’s a famous artist that uses nature in his work.”

“Wow. I never knew that. So what do you do?”

“Mostly metal. I work with steel, copper, sometimes gold. It’s why I need the heat.” I point to the forge. “And why I wear this.” I pat the heavy fireproof apron covering my chest.

“What are you making?” He wiggles his finger toward the skeleton structure in front of me.

“I got a commission from the Tate. Do you know what a commission is?” I can tell by his blank stare that he doesn’t. “It’s when someone pays you to make something. It could be something specific like you coming to me and saying I want a replica of the Porsche 917 race car or it could be like the Tate saying they want a piece within their theme of future movement. And don’t ask me what they mean by that because when you commission something for me, I’m making what I make.”

“Can I watch you?”

“Sorry, kid, I’m just not used to that sort of thing. I work by myself.”

The boy’s face falls, which doesn’t sit right with my gut. But I’m having a hard enough time finishing this piece of work without a seven-year-old peering over my shoulder. I push away from my work table and pull off my welding gloves. “Do you want another swim lesson?”

“Nah. I guess I should get going and leave you alone.” He scuffs a toe against the ground.

“Where’s your sister?”

“Cooking. She texted you to see what you wanted to eat for dinner, but you didn’t get back to her.”

“Hell.” I grab my phone. Sure enough, there’s a number of unread messages. I scroll to the one that is from an unknown number.

Summer: Any thoughts on what youd like to throw in the trash for dinner

Summer: Okay so maybe that came off rude. It was a joke

Summer: Seriously a joke

Summer: Nevermind I’m making curry

“She’s making curry,” Colby offers unhelpfully.

“Yeah, I see that,” I grunt and scrub a knuckle across my forehead. I’ve handled this like shit. In my defense, I have no experience with women except for my sister and pretty sure that doesn’t count, but abandoning a woman who kisses you seems to be dumb. Ignoring her messages on top of that? Might as well just throw me out with the trash. Here I am looking like a torn-up piece of paper on my best days and yet, Summer, a woman more beautiful than the flowers in Tina’s garden, willingly put her mouth against mine. I could have had her that night, and I walked away. I don’t deserve a single chance to even breathe near her, let alone lay her on my bed and take her.

“Where’d you get your scars?” Colby asks, interrupting my train of thought.

“My old man broke a bottle across my face when he was tanked. He mistook me for an intruder and tried to defend himself.” I finger my scars and then squint at Colby. Since we’re asking uncomfortable questions, I say, “Where’s your parents, kid?”

“Car accident a couple of years ago. No scars though.” He shrugs as if losing your parents when you’re a kid is no big deal.

“That’s tough.” No scars that anyone can see is what he’s saying. My old man is still around, but he’s too ashamed to show his face.

“My mom’s still alive but I don’t know where she is,” he adds. His lips thin out as he tries to hold his emotions in.

I make my mind up. We’re eating dinner together tonight. “Let’s go.” I gesture for Colby to lead me back to the house.

“To where?”

“Have some curry. Where else?”

18

Summer

I glance at my phone again, and of course I don’t have any texts back from Kale. It was stupid to text him. Desperate even. What is wrong with me? I need to avoid him. It’s dumb to do anything else.

He made it abundantly clear the other night and the past few days that he didn’t want to pursue whatever was happening between us. Still I find myself trying to brush the line. My mind is always drifting back to the kiss we had. The jealousy that shone in his eyes when he thought I was into Colten. I’d felt wanted for the first time in forever.

“Wash your hands,” I tell Colby when I see him step into the kitchen. I pause for a moment when Kale comes in right after him. I turn away to hide the flush of my face before he can see it. I keep my back to him, not really knowing how to react. I definitely wasn’t expecting to see him.

“You too,” Colby tells Kale. I get myself together and grab an extra plate, making one for Kale too. I’m sure Colby pushed him into coming to dinner. He’s been asking about Kale a lot lately. I think the man is growing on my brother too.

I sit everything on the kitchen island. We’ve never eaten in the dining room. It’s giant and too formal. This kitchen would do well with a table in it. It has a little breakfast nook that is surrounded by large windows. A table would fit perfectly in front of them for small casual meals like this one.

“I’ll see about getting one.”

I jerk my head up, realizing I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud.

“Just an idea. It’s your home.” I rush to add the last part.

“What is this?” Kale reaches out his hand, capturing my wrist. He runs his fingers along the rash on my forearm. It looks a bit more red because I was scratching it earlier. I tried not to touch it, but it had been so itchy I couldn't help it. Maybe I’ll go into town tomorrow to get some cream for it.