Breaking The Rules. Katie McGarry

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СКАЧАТЬ into a cute little Swiss mountain village. Each store I pass screams expensive and boasts if you break it, you buy it. Well, the ice cream shop doesn’t boast that, but it would be cool if it did.

      Staying in the hotel with Mom’s messages on my phone became torture, and walking alone isn’t the needed distraction.

      A couple exits a store, and they laugh and hold hands. They’re beautiful together—wearing the same type of clothes and smile. They look like they’ve materialized out of a J. Crew catalog and chat over their shared love of some vase.

      Noah and I would never have that conversation.

      Feeling suddenly insecure and underdressed in my cut-offs and blue T-shirt, I tuck my free-flowing curls behind my ears and cross my sweater-covered arms over my chest as I wander past a line of galleries. I’ve visited lots of galleries over the summer, and judging by the quality of art in the windows, none of them have been this high-end. In any of these places, my work wouldn’t be fit to display in the bathroom. If what the curator in Denver said was true, my paintings are probably inhabiting a Dumpster.

      Noah wouldn’t say it, but he harbors guilt for changing our plans. He won’t after I gush over the number of galleries in Vail. This side trip could be life-altering. Maybe I do have one last shot at proving myself before going home.

      My pack dangles from my shoulder. I brought a sketchbook and chalk in case inspiration hits. Lots of inspiring views around me, but the art...wow. Talk about feeling less.

      A beautiful painting of the night sky hangs in the window of a gallery and catches my attention. It’s not the lines or the choice of coloring that draws me to it. It’s the constellation, and I become completely lost.

      “What do you think?”

      “Excuse me?” I glance to my right, and a guy with a mop of sandy-brown hair sporting a pair of jeans and T-shirt stands next to me. He’s older than me. Easily thirtysomething, I guess. To be honest, people sort of blend in between twenty-five and forty.

      He raises a bag in his hand. “I’ve walked by a couple of times, and you’ve been here staring. So I’m thinking you must like it.”

      I blink, not realizing I had been entranced for so long. “It’s good,” I answer, because it is. “I like the shading here.” Then motion to where the blacks and blues merge. “It gives it a nice Impressionist feel.”

      With the bag on his wrist, he shoves his hands into his pockets and appraises me as if I should have more to say, which I don’t.

      “Is there a problem?” I ask.

      “You don’t like the painting.”

      I hike a brow. “I like the painting.”

      “No.” The reusable grocery bag crackles. “You don’t. There’s a look people have when they like something, and you don’t have that light.”

      Not caring for the interrogation, I break the news. “It’s wrong.”

      His head jerks back. “What?”

      “It’s wrong,” I repeat and gesture to the middle of the constellation. “It’s missing a star.”

      “It’s art. There’s only what the artist intended.”

      “True, but I don’t think that’s the case here.”

      “Why?”

      I motion with my finger where the star should be. “Because if I meant to leave the star out, I would have made this area a shade darker. Just enough that you could only see it if you were searching. I also would have left a small indication that something so important, something so critical to your soul has disappeared. The sole reason a constellation exists is because it’s a sum of its parts. To lose one of those parts...it’s painful and irreversible.”

      He’s silent for a moment as he focuses on the area I pointed out. “Maybe you’re wrong on the constellation.”

      “My brother’s name was Aires. I couldn’t forget that constellation if I tried.” A heavy weight slams into my chest. I’ve gone too long without remembering my brother. I used to think about him several times a day, and now I haven’t thought of him since last night. I miss him, and what does it mean that he’s not haunting my every thought? Am I forgetting him?

      With a sigh that actually causes me pain, the man stalks into the gallery, lifts the painting off the easel and carries it into the back. If I was Noah, I’d drop the f-bomb right now, but I’m not, so a simple crap will suffice. I broke a cardinal rule: keep your mouth shut until you know who the gallery owner and the artist are because they can be hiding in the Trojan horse of a tourist with reusable shopping bags.

      So much for the idea of making connections in Vail.

      I stand there, staring at the empty slot, wondering if there’s any way to salvage this, like: “I didn’t mean it” or “I smoked crack before I traipsed over here” or “I’ve been kidnapped and a bomb’s been strapped to my chest, and if I don’t trash other people’s paintings, a bus on the highway will explode.”

      Yeah, I don’t think he’ll buy it.

      I turn and begin the long walk of shame back to the hotel. My cell vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and frown the moment I spot the name of my therapist, Mrs. Collins. It’s like the woman is hardwired to me.

      Her: What are your thoughts on moving our Skype visit to tomorrow?

      I stop dead in the middle of the cobblestone street, and I rush out an apology when a couple has to separate their hands to move around me. Me: My father told you, didn’t he?

      Her: Told me what? :)

      Me: That my mom called! And the drill sergeant control freak finally returns. My father lasted two months longer than I thought he would before interfering with my therapy. Me: I thought he was giving me space!

      Time. Too much time. Maybe she’s moved on with her life instead of stalking mine. Right as I slip my phone into my pocket, it vibrates again. Her: He wasn’t the one to tell me.

      My chin drops to my throat. Noah is a dead man.

      * * *

      Sitting on the floor of the hotel room, I stare at a blank pad of drawing paper and rub my temples. Oh, God, what have I done? It seemed like a great idea at the time. In fact, it seemed like the most brilliant idea in the course of human history, but I was mad. So mad and Noah is going to freak.

      Freak.

      Noah’s never been truly angry at me. Aggravated? Yes. Ticked at me? Yep. Strongly annoyed? Heck, yeah. Infuriated? No.

      The handle on the door rattles, and a half second later there’s a click when Noah’s key card unlocks the door. I press my hand to my stomach, hoping it will prevent the contents of lunch from making a reappearance.

      He steps in and smiles the moment he spots me. It’s a horrible, horrible, sweet smile. The type that says he loves me beyond belief. His hair partly covers his dark eyes, and when his face widens with the grin, I can spot the sexy, rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.

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