Kaleidoscope Hearts Page 3

  LOL. Sorry. Where are you now?

  About to have breakfast.

  Want to come over? You can sleep here.

  I freeze and stare at the screen, expecting the words to switch up on me and say something else.

  Not with me, by the way.

  I start typing out a message, but delete it when his next one comes through.

  Okay, this is awkward. If you don’t respond, I’m going to call you.

  The phone vibrates in my hand a moment later, and I pick up, clearing my throat.

  “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” he says. His voice. God I love his voice. It’s deep and rich, and always sounds like he just woke up.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine, though. Thank you.”

  “I don’t think we’ve ever spoken on the phone,” he says.

  “No, I don’t think we have,” I respond, not adding the gazillion other things that seep into my thoughts—because you’re an asshole, because you left, because I’m your best friend’s little sister, because you couldn’t have a relationship if your life depended on it . . .

  “Well, now we have. Okay, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t take that the wrong way. I mean, unless you want to, and that would be totally fine by me too.” I groan at the smile in his voice.

  “Oliver . . .”

  His chuckle jumps through the speaker and ricochets through my body. I hate what he does to me. “I’m just playing, Elle. Anyway, are you making bean dip tonight?”

  “Do you want me to make bean dip tonight?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  “If you ask nicely, I’ll make you some bean dip, Oliver. If you’re going to be a sarcastic asshole, I’m hanging up on you.”

  He exhales. “Estelle Reuben, my favorite person in the entire world, would you please make me some bean dip? With extra guacamole.”

  I smile at his words, even though I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. He’s dangerous, I remind myself. This is what he does to you. Every. Single. Time.

  “Okay.”

  I hear a door slam wherever he is, followed by rustling and then more rustling, finishing up with a heavy sigh. “There’s an empty spot on my bed for sleeping, in case you’re tired.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll see you later.”

  I hang up at the sound of his laughter and put my phone away, as I turn my attention to the now-cold egg sandwich that I’d ordered for myself. Once I’m finished eating, I take the short walk to my studio and lock the door behind me. Glancing around at the paintings on the white walls, I wonder if I should rearrange them. A lot of them are Wyatt’s, but most of them are local artists’ work that I’ve fallen in love with through the years. Some of mine are also there, but I don’t display those in the front part of the gallery. The front of the gallery is reserved for items I have for sale, and the only creations of mine I sell are my kaleidoscope hearts.

  I went to school to become an art teacher, but was unsure about it. When I told Wyatt I wanted to be an art teacher but couldn’t see myself in such a demanding field, he presented me with the idea for Paint it Back. He said this way my creativity would stay alive, and if I wanted, I could start a program for kids. Through the studio, we were able to start a summer program where older kids come over after their day camp and work on paintings. It started as a way to get them off the streets and focusing their energy on something else, but once school started, they kept setting up appointments to come by in small groups.

  I’m setting white sheets over the easels for my Monday afternoon class, when my phone rings.

  “Elle,” my brother says brightly, as if he hadn’t practically kicked me out a couple of hours ago. “I forgot to tell you, some people are coming over later.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, around twelve. You think you can make some of your bean dip?”

  It takes everything in me not to growl at his request. “Sure. How many people?”

  “Hmmm . . . me, Bean, Jenson, and Bobby . . . that’s it.”

  “So only four people are eating?” I ask.

  “Yeah, four.”

  I blink rapidly, wondering if he’s going to include me in there at all.

  “Well, five, if you want to stick around,” he says, clearing his throat as he corrects himself.

  “Who’s Bobby? That guy you work with?”

  “Yeah, he’s the new guy. You’ll like him, he’s cool.”

  “Cool like you, I’m sure,” I mutter. My brother and his friends are undercover comic book nerds in the guise of jocks. He’s had the same group of friends since he was in grade school, and it’s not often he brings another one into the close-knit group they have. I imagine that Bobby must fit the same description as the rest of them.

  “You can tell Mia if you want,” he adds, as a selling point.

  “Mia and Jenson in the same room? No, thank you.”

  Vic laughs. “She’s not over it?”

  “Over him leaving her to be with his ex-girlfriend? I doubt it.” I raise a brow as I take new brushes out of their package and put them in the silver canisters that sit beside each easel.

  “He’s a dick,” Vic says. “Then again, she’s not very bright. I would never have let you date one of my friends.”

  I put down the supplies in my hand and brace myself on the edge of the counter. “And why is that, exactly?”

  He laughs a deep, rich laugh that would have made me smile under other circumstances. “Come on, Elle. You know them.”

  His words make me cringe. I do know them. I know them well.

  “Anyway, I’ll see you later. They get here at twelve for the pre-show so . . .”

  “Yeah, I got it, Vic. Your dip will be ready before kick-off. Did that girl leave already?”

  “Yeah, she left. I invited her over for dinner on Wednesday. Oliver and Jenson are also coming over with some . . . female friends, so you’ll meet her then.”

  I make a mental note to disappear on Wednesday night, and tell Vic I’ll see him later. Walking back to the gallery section, I notice one of my kaleidoscope hearts is crooked in its holding place, so I tilt it back upright. A magazine that covered an event we held here once had described my hearts as “heartbreaking, poignant, beautiful pieces.” This specific one is on display, but not for sale. It was one of the first ones I made, and Wyatt refused to get rid of it. I used a lot of purples for this particular piece, and every time the sun peeks in here, speckled beams of purple light bounce off the walls.

  “If anybody comes in here trying to buy it, you tell them I’ll match their price and double it,” he’d said to me with a grin.

  Tears begin to well in my eyes as I stand there, looking at the way the light reflects off of it, and thinking of Wyatt. I wipe my eyes, take a breath, and walk out, locking the door behind me. I make it back to Vic’s and hear him in the shower. I pop open a bottle of wine while I work on the dip, pouring the mashed beans at the bottom, the avocado in the middle, and sour cream on top. Once I’m done making a large bowl of that, I take out the Crock-pot I bought my brother three Christmases ago that he clearly hasn’t used, and begin to set up some meatballs. Taking one last sip of wine, I walk to my room and throw myself into the bed.

  I DON’T KNOW how long I sleep, but boisterous shouts coming from the living room downstairs wake me from my nap. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my eyes, as I drag myself out of bed and walk to the bathroom. My reflection is a mess, so I brush my elbow-length hair, and put drops in my eyes until the pink clears and they’re back to bright hazel. After applying some make-up, I readjust my black Elvis is King shirt so that the loose part at the top falls off my left shoulder, and brush off my fashionably torn jeans before heading down to the living room. It isn’t until I’m already there that I realize I’m still wearing my Darth Vader slippers. It’s too late to turn around though, since I’ve already been spotted.

  “Hey, Elle,” Jenson calls out, making all heads turn my way.

  “Hey,
Jenson. Did you move back?”

  “Nope, but I’ll be around a lot for the next couple of months,” he says.

  “Cool. Hey guys,” I say, looking around the room and waving at Oliver, Vic and some blonde guy I’ve never met.

  “Hey,” they all say unanimously.

  “Elle, this is Bobby. Bobby, this is my sister, Estelle,” Vic says, not taking his eyes off the television.

  Bobby stands and offers me his hand, which I take. He’s actually pretty good looking in a preppy, boy-next-door kind of way, which makes me smile because I was wrong—he’s not like all of my brother’s friends. He’s not tall and athletic like Vic and Oliver. He doesn’t have the bad boy thing going that Jenson has, but he flashes a huge Colgate smile as he shakes my hand, and I am treated to the charming vibe that they all share. It’s one that makes women do a double take, regardless of what a man looks like.

  “When you said little sister, I was picturing a teenager with braces,” Bobby says as his eyes travel down my body.

  I drop my hand from his. “I’m sure that’s what he sees when he describes me.”

  “That’s definitely not how I would describe you.”

  At the hint of flirting in his tone, I look over his shoulder to look at Vic’s reaction, but instead my eyes land on Oliver’s. It kills me that I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He doesn’t look upset or jealous, or even curious; he’s just staring.

  “I’m not sure I want to know how anybody would describe me,” I respond.

  Before he can say anything else, I step away and walk to the kitchen to get the stuff I made and place it on the table, somehow managing to dodge the beer bottles that cover it.

  “She’s beautiful, and she cooks?” Bobby says, reaching for a chip. “I think I might keep her.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jenson says, slightly bothered. My brother’s friends have this thing. They think they’re all supposed to protect me from outsiders, as if the danger lies beyond their lair. I think my engagement with Wyatt threw them over the edge since none of them saw it coming.

  “You’re not going to give Bobby the whole spiel about staying away from your sister?”

  My eyes find Oliver’s again, and I smile when he pats the space beside him. My body stirs, wanting to move toward him, but my brain zaps sense into me. I take a seat beside Victor instead.

  “Drop it,” Vic says in response to Jenson’s comment.

  “When we were young, we all got this huge lecture about it,” Jenson explains. I lean forward to get a better look at him while he tells the story, since I’ve never heard this before. “When we were little, we didn’t care because Elle was totally like our own baby sister . . . but then she grew up, and any time any of us would make a comment about it, Vic was all don’t look at her, don’t touch her. If I find out you did, I’ll break your arms, and you’ll never be able to come over to my house again.”

  “For the record, I would have gladly gotten my arms broken,” Bobby volunteers with a smile, as his blue eyes flick to mine.

  “It wasn’t the arm breaking that was the issue; it was the ban from the house! He had the best parents! We practically lived in that house.” Jenson says, laughing and taking a swig from his beer, which he raises toward me. “And I had a good throwing arm, so I couldn’t risk it for a girl. Sorry, Elle.”

  “Trust me, I’m not sorry.” I sit back and stretch my legs while they chuckle.

  “Elle knows to stay away from you idiots. None of you are good for her,” Vic says, taking a handful of chips and going for the dip.

  My eyes find Oliver in time to see him wince slightly at Vic’s words. Our gazes stick, and a million things run through my mind—was that the cause of what happened? Did Vic’s approval mean more than mine? They’re questions I know the answers to. They’re thoughts that shadowed me for years, despite my attempts to sidestep them.

  “Serious question,” Jenson says, jolting my attention back to him. “Growing up, who would you say was most your type?”

  I try not to laugh at the question and the face my brother makes. Victor has always been a guy’s guy—the one everyone wants to take to a game and hang out with at a bar. Junior, Jenson and Oliver are all pretty similar in that sense. Out of the four, Junior is the only one married with a family, while the other three are forever bachelors. Or so it seems. Jenson is the epitome of what you don’t take home to your parents. He’s good looking and has the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing going, but he also has that dangerous edge to him with his motorcycle, tattoos and bad boy persona.

  I look at Oliver, who has always had this easy way about him, from the lazy smile to the disheveled, sandy brown hair that makes you want to run your fingers through it. He has a way of looking at you that makes you feel like you’re the only female in the room. And those dimples . . . God, those dimples. All my friends wanted to date the unattainable Oliver. He has that magnetism that powerful men have. Even when we were young, charisma oozed out of him in bucketfuls.

  “Yeah, Elle,” Oliver says, giving me a slow, sexy grin as his eyes bounce from my mouth to my eyes. “Who was most your type?”

  I shoot him a look before tearing my eyes away from his and toward Jenson, who’s watching me with amusement.

  “Honestly? Jenson,” I say, shrugging.

  “Boom!” Jenson yells. “I always fucking knew it! So you would have hooked up with me?”

  “I didn’t say that. I only said you were most my type,” I say, laughing. I don’t mention that he was pretty much every teenage girl’s type at the time.

  “And this is exactly why I had to threaten them,” Vic says, looking at Bobby, who’s shaking his head in amusement.

  My eyes fix on the Cowboys-Forty-Niners game on TV, and I jump slightly when I feel a tap on my foot.

  “Really?” Oliver mouths, placing both hands over his heart as if he’s wounded. I smile and shake my head. “I like your shoes,” he says, flashing that half-grin of his.

  “I know you do,” I respond with a wink, then mentally kick myself for winking at him. We’re still looking at each other when Bobby speaks up, and this time Oliver’s eyes narrow at the question.

  “So has the ban been lifted? Am I free to ask her out on a date?”

  “I don’t date,” I respond, dropping my eyes from Oliver’s.

  “Impossible. A girl like you definitely dates,” Bobby says.

  “A girl like me.” I let out a scoffed chuckle. I’m about to leave it at that, but then think better of it and soldier on. “Even if I was interested in dating, I wouldn’t date one of my brother’s friends. All of you are trouble with a capital T. Didn’t you hear the speech?”

  “Trouble with a capital T?” Jenson asks.

  “Do we really want to go there right now?” I say, glaring at him until he catches my drift, and his laughter fades away.

  “No, you’re right. You’re right. Vic was right.” Jenson concedes.

  “Let’s drop the dating my sister conversation and watch the game,” Vic says, giving each of the guys a long, pointed look. After a couple of seconds of being elbowed by him every time he moves to get food, I get up and sit beside Oliver on the loveseat.

  “Ah . . . you did miss me, after all,” he says, as soon as I get comfortable.

  “Well, for starters, I couldn’t think with your eyes burning holes into the side of my face, and you were my second choice for most my type, so . . .” I shrug and flash him a smile. We look at each other for a long moment before his eyes drop to my mouth and finally away from me to the television. Another touchdown is scored, another kick is made, and a long string of curse words is thrown out by each of them. Just as I’m contemplating making an exit, Oliver shifts beside me.

  “I seem to recall a different order of hierarchy,” he whispers huskily in my ear, making me shiver.

  “Of course you do,” I whisper back, unwilling to acknowledge the way my heart is playing Double Dutch in my chest.

  “It’s true.” He moves clo
ser so that his arm is pressed up against mine.

  “You have your memories; I have mine.”

  Oliver’s expression changes from playful to serious. “Yeah, I guess so.” He exhales. “So, you ready for Tuesday?”

  “I am. I’m excited to see the space and get the ball rolling. Thank you for asking me,” I say, hoping he understands how much something like this means to me.

  “I couldn’t think of a better person for the job.” He bumps my foot again and my heart vibrates at the touch.

  “Stop playing footsies with me,” I whisper.

  “Or what?” he whispers back, cocking his head in a way that makes his hair fall over his left eye and bounce over his lashes every time he blinks.

  “Or Darth Vader will be forced to draw his light saber.”

  His chuckle vibrates the couch and into me. “Trust me; he doesn’t want to compete with mine.”

  When the double connotation hits me, my mouth drops open, and he laughs.

  “Some things never change,” I say.

  His eyes darken. “Sometimes they get better.”

  I look away and sit there for a couple more minutes before I go back to my room, using the excuse that I need to see Mia before I go to Wyatt’s parents’ for dinner. After I say my goodbyes, I keep thinking about Oliver’s words. I swear, the man haunts me more than my dead fiancé. It’s unnerving.

  I USED TO be that girl who was optimistic about everything, but then life slapped me in the face and forced me to become a realist. I’m not cynical or anything, but I’ve been through enough not to see the world through rose-colored lenses. The day started off normal enough—my mom called to try to set me up with this guy, Derek. She’s been trying to set me up with him since I was, like, six. This time, I said yes. The shrieks of happiness that permeated through the phone lines were intense, to say the least. It was as though she was channeling her inner hyena. I recall it all went downhill from there.

  The gallery was spotless when I got here, just the way I like it. Now, it looks like ten groups of toddlers tore through it. It all started when Finlay, a thirteen-year-old boy, asked Veronica out on a date. Finlay’s best friend, Brett, had apparently wanted to ask her out, so when he overheard the conversation and she said yes, he lost it. LOST. IT. In my studio! He threw his paintbrush at Finlay, splashes of the blue he was using to paint an ocean went everywhere, and that started a paint fight, which resulted in me calling their parents to pick them up.