Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(39)

I plucked the pen from his hands, shoving it and the notebook too far away from him for him to reach for them. He looked at them longingly for a moment before he let out a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Honestly, you giving me so much to do today has been a blessing for me. I can’t stop thinking about the box we found, about my dad…” He swallowed, the thick Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing. “Working on stuff like this helps me get out of my head for a while.”

I frowned, crossing my arms to keep myself from reaching for him. I knew that feeling all too well, the need to escape, to move my hands in an effort to stop thinking — even if just for a while.

“I just… I can’t figure out why that stuff was in there,” he continued. “You know? Why was that stuff saved, tucked away? How did it survive as well as it did? Why didn’t the fire department take it, or the police? Why wasn’t it given to my mom, to my family, if it wasn’t needed for evidence?”

I blew out a sigh of my own. “I don’t know, none of it makes sense to me either.”

Logan’s frown deepened, his eyes falling to where he folded his hands in his lap.

I nudged his shoulder with my elbow. “Hey, you got the hard drive out, right? And you got the necessary equipment to see the files that are on it. That has to be comforting, at least.”

“Yes,” he agreed, lifting his gaze to mine. “But the hard drive is password protected. I can’t access anything until I crack that code.”

“And you will,” I assured him. “But, until then, there’s no sense in stressing yourself out over answers you can’t find — no matter how many times you ask the questions.”

His brows folded together again, and I chuckled, uncrossing my arms and taking a tentative step toward him. Before I could think better of it, I reached out, smoothing my thumb over the wrinkle I’d been marveling at all day.

“Have you ever painted before?” I asked, eyes on the skin that was smooth now that I’d run my thumb over it.

Logan’s breath was shallow, his eyes locked on my face as I stared at where that wrinkle had been. “Not since elementary school.”

I laughed, letting my hand drop from where I touched his face. “I think it’s time we changed that.” I held out that hand for his. “Come on, let’s have some fun.”

He grimaced. “I don’t think I can. Not right now.”

“Well,” I insisted, wiggling my fingers and nodding toward his hand. “We’re at least going to try.”

Reluctantly, Logan took my hand, and I tried not to feel the warmth of his hand in mine as more than a friendly gesture as I guided him over to the corner of the room we’d started setting up for the painting workshops. A circle of easels faced the middle of that section, each station loaded with paint and brushes and palettes. I instructed him to sit, and then I moved to the corner, pulling out two large, blank canvases.

I placed one in the easel in front of him, the other in the one next to him where I would sit. As I poured paint for us and got rinse cups ready, Logan was quiet, not even singing along to the music anymore. He was staring at the blank canvas like it was a threat rather than a release.

“You’ll like this,” I promised him when I took the seat to his left. “Just try to relax and let go.”

Logan nodded, another sigh leaving his lips as he picked up the first brush. “I don’t really know what to do.”

“That’s the whole point,” I said. “You don’t have to know anything. You just… feel. Do. Whatever you want.”

I turned my attention to my own canvas, hoping it would help release some of the pressure Logan felt to produce something. I let the music fill in the space between us, and after a few minutes of me working on my piece, Logan finally dipped his brush in the salamander orange paint and began.

We worked in a comfortable silence for a while, and the more time stretched on, the more Logan seemed to relax. He started singing again, and I just hummed along beside him until he surprised me when he belted out every word to “Man of Constant Sorrow.”

“He’s a bluegrass fan, too,” I mused, keeping my eyes on my canvas. “Is there any kind of music you don’t listen to?”

“Death core,” he said easily. “And really, all metal music. Although, not because I didn’t try to love it.”

“I’m trying to picture you head banging and screaming with the rock on sign.” I held my index and pinky finger up to illustrate, sticking out my tongue like Gene Simmons.

Logan chuckled. “I even went to a show in Nashville once, wondering if I’d appreciate it more live. And I did, but… not enough to listen to it on my own.” He pointed the tip of his brush at me. “Did you know there are literally hundreds of sub-genres of metal music? It all depends on the vocal style, instruments used, what era or region or bands they draw inspiration from. I mean, there’s literally a genre called Celtic Metal that’s inspired by Celtic mythology.”

It was the most enthusiastic I’d seen him all day, the excited grin on his face too contagious for me to fight.

“You’re like a walking encyclopedia,” I commented. “Like, you know a little something about everything it seems.”