Over the Edge (Bridge #3)(31)

Liv touched my arm, and I caught her thoughtful gaze.

“This was my dad’s studio. I haven’t been up here since he died.” I swallowed over a grimace. “Sorry, Liv. We can go.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” She scanned the untouched shadowy room. “Can I look around?”

“Sure.”

I imagined it all through her eyes. It must look like a real dump. Immediately I hated myself for letting it sit this way for so long. I opened the shades. Billows of dust floated through the air. Dozens of boxes of materials sat against one wall. Another wall was distinguished by an extended work surface where an unfinished project lay scattered. Vats, a short wine rack, and the rest of his winemaking operation filled one corner. Then, where the light hit the strongest, an entire wall of glittering color. His art, a lifetime of work that hadn’t made its way into the hands of friends or strangers. The pieces he’d kept for himself.

Liv went to them, walking along with wonder in her eyes. That wonder reminded me of the admiration I’d had for my dad’s art since I was a boy. That same wonder had brought me into the trade. Now I didn’t do it for the money but as a way to keep him close. She paused in front of one piece—a sun and a moon, joined. Shimmering gold and bright yellows blended into a night as cool and vibrant as Liv’s unforgettable eyes.

“You can touch them,” I said. I joined her and marveled at the piece that always seemed to be the centerpiece of his collection. “This one was always my favorite. Dad used to tell me it meant rebirth and strength. I didn’t get the rebirth thing for a long time. Had to grow up enough to appreciate what that really meant. But I liked the strength part. I remember always wanting to be strong like him.”

She turned toward me, her eyes soft. “You are strong.”

“On the outside, Liv. Not in all the ways that matter, though.”

She didn’t speak, and I cursed myself for getting too close to a topic I didn’t want to talk about. But for some reason, she made me want to talk, even if it hurt. Even if it was awkward like it was now.

“I’m glad you brought me here. Seeing this reminds me that some people don’t give up.”

I searched her eyes for meaning until she looked down and toyed with the small charm that hung from her bracelet.

“I used to paint in college. Majored in it, actually. But I haven’t picked up a brush since I left campus. It’s been years now.”

“Why did you stop?”

She shrugged. “I’m terrified, to be honest. I sketch sometimes, or I work on little crafty projects. I can decorate rooms all day long. But I look at my box of paints, and I’m petrified.”

“What are you scared of?”

“I’m not sure. Nothing ever feels right. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to be perfect, Ian. Art has nothing to do with perfection.”

“If you can understand that, you can get past it. You can rise above whatever is holding you back.”

“I’d like to think that, but it’s not so easy.”

I traced the wave of a sun ray, a path I must have traveled a hundred times while my dad worked here, a short train ride away from the home I’d grown up in. Liv was worried about perfection. I was already too broken to reach for those heights.

“Mosaics are born from imperfection. Broken pieces come together to make something beautiful, almost like they were fated to fit together and become what they are,” I said.

Knowing that Olivia had abandoned her art hit me in the same place where I felt my father’s death—the place where memories reminded me of all the days the cancer had robbed him of.

I let my hand fall back to my side. “After my dad died, I couldn’t work for a while. I decided I needed a break. I couldn’t stick white subway tile to a wall without thinking about him, let alone try to do him justice on something like this.”

“But you got past it.”

“Yeah. I missed him so damn much. I finally broke down and took a job, and when I did, I realized it was the only way I could keep him close enough. Nothing else gave me relief. Doesn’t take away the pain, but it keeps him close.”

“And your tattoo…that keeps him close too.”

I remembered her touch that morning in the kitchen, painful but oddly welcome. And without having to tell her, she’d known. The mosaic stretching across my skin was homage to him, to the pain I couldn’t quite let go of.

“It does.”

“It’s really beautiful. I’m sure you’ve made him really proud.”

Her words wrapped around me, seeming to crawl inside and make me want to have her even closer. I caught her cheek, reveling in her soft skin. I’d had her this way before, so close but just out of reach.

“You’re beautiful too, Liv. Inside and out. Perfection doesn’t exist, but if it did, it already exists inside you. All your doubts, your flaws, your fear. Use all of it. Don’t waste it because you think the world won’t love every stroke.”

She swallowed, and her eyes glistened with emotion. “I’ll try,” she whispered.

Whatever hurt was there, I wanted to take away, swiftly and completely. I pulled her into my arms and pressed my lips to hers. I flicked my tongue along the seam of her lips until she opened for me with a sigh. Then her tongue and her taste were all mine. I drank from her like she was cool water on a summer day…like she was the one thing I never knew I needed.