Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(80)

Again, not that it mattered, since I was very, very alone.

It was, perhaps, the loneliest I’d felt in my entire life, sitting in that studio with my hands creating art in an attempt to remind myself there was something worth breathing for. And as another wave of tears hit me, my face twisting with the gut-wrenching arrival of them, I tried to pinpoint what had set them into motion — but I couldn’t.

It had all hit me at once.

I’d been holed up in my room upstairs all morning, not packing — though I should have been, and reading the end of All the Light We Cannot See, instead. Maybe it was because I wanted to escape my new reality. Or maybe it was because I wanted to feel some sort of tie to Logan again — no matter how small.

Regardless, when I finished, I closed the book, stared at the wall, blinked several times, and then, I sobbed.

I cried for Maurie-Laure, for Verner, for the horrors and tragedies of war and for the beautiful victories of life lived after. I cried for the man who had given me that book, who I wished I could call and talk to about it, who I wished I could laugh and play with like I had just weeks before. I cried for my art studio, for the dream I’d barely seen brought to life before I’d forfeited it. And I cried for my family — or rather, my lack thereof — for the little girl who had her innocence stolen and for the woman who realized maybe no family was better than the family she had.

Not that I had a choice. My father had made that for me.

Just like he threatened, I was excommunicated from the family. He didn’t even let me talk to my mom or my brother again, and explained to me that they were already told what I’d done, and that they had no interest in speaking with me, anyway. I figured it was true for my brother, who believed whatever Dad said, but I couldn’t stomach that Mom felt the same. And I knew even if she didn’t, she was too scared of my father to come find me, to try to make it right.

And so, I was alone.

I had roughly a week left to get out of the studio before Dad would have me formally evicted. Chris had offered his couch for as long as I needed, but past that, I didn’t have a plan.

I didn’t have anything.

Something inside me surged, like a warm, bright burst of morning light, because that wasn’t true. I did have something — my pride. My dignity. My moral compass, pointing due north.

I had done what was right, even knowing it wouldn’t be easy, and that was enough to ease the pain.

It was another cold night, and since Dad had already cut off the electricity, I was painting by the light of several candles, wrapped up in a blanket on one of the few bar stools left. My arm and hand were freezing, but I was almost done with the painting I’d started that afternoon, as soon as I’d finished the book.

It was the most powerful scene I’d ever read — the version that I saw in my head, anyway. It was my Maurie-Laure and Verner, sitting on the curb in Saint Malo. It was a young, innocent boy trapped in a war as a villain he never intended to play, and a young, innocent blind girl who fell in love with a world she could not see — even when it was at its ugliest.

That scene was one I would never forget. Just like the book. Just like the boy who gave me the book.

And I wanted to immortalize all of it with that painting.

Fireworks were already spouting off here and there outside, even though we were far from midnight and the hour that would welcome in a new year. The sounds were dull and distant, so when a knock sounded at the shop front door, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

When I turned and found Logan on the other side of the glass, I was paralyzed altogether.

Small bursts of fireworks were going off somewhere in the distance behind and above him, casting him in soft pink and purple and blue glows as he stood there, hands in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, hair a mess under his navy blue ball cap. My feet carried me numbly to him, and it felt like someone else’s hand unlocking the door, someone else stepping back to allow him inside. When the candlelight reached his face, I saw how dark his eyes were, how his beard was longer than usual and scraggly like I’d never seen it.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at me, at the blanket around my shoulders, the tears marking my face, the bird’s nest of hair on top of my head. Then, he looked behind me — at the painting, at the book on the stand next to it — and then back at me.

My bottom lip quivered, and I sniffed, trying and failing to fight back another wave of tears. “I told you I’m not good with emotions.”

Logan smirked, opening his arms, and I padded forward until I was in them. He wrapped me up in a tight hug, and I cried harder when I felt that embrace, when my head rested against his chest, his chin on top of my head, his distinct scent of whiskey and wood and old books surrounding me in comfortable familiarity.

He sighed, as if that embrace was all he’d been wanting, too. And for the longest time, he just held me there, arms wrapped tight, hearts beating in sync, me crying on his shoulder.

“I take it you finished,” he said, voice rumbling through where my ear rested on his chest.

I nodded. “I told you not to make me cry, Logan.”

“Well, you made me cry first, so I think we’re even.”

My heart ached at that, and I pulled back, looking up at him through my wet lashes. “You’re right. I guess I deserved it, huh?”

He chuckled, sweeping the mess of hair that had fallen loose from my ponytail away from my face. His eyes catalogued every part of me, but he didn’t look at me like I was the hot mess express in pajamas.