Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (32 page)

“So, you’re finally ready.”

She got it. I don’t know why I ever questioned that she would. Just as she understood however much I missed her, however much I wanted to see her, there was someone else I needed to see first.

I have been everywhere—three different continents, too many countries to count. I travelled like it was my job, emptying my savings and wandering from place to place, drawing, painting, feeling.

The first month I did nothing but walk around in a daze, looking at the people, the places, submerging myself in the scenery of the Midwest and East coast. Then I hopped a flight to Europe and started my tour. When the numbness wore off, I ached deep inside of my heart, the place we only recognize when it breaks. I grieved, for the sister I lost, and the life she lived. I grieved over the fact I never got to say goodbye—over the harsh words we shared the last few times we were together. And I grieved over the life she would never experience, the love, the joy, the relationships.

Somewhere in those months of grief, I found peace. And I found my art.

What was spurred to life by Jordan, and then stalled with the death of my sister, came back to life with a fierce intensity I had never experienced before. I photographed, drew, and painted for hours a day. I filled sketchbooks, shipped canvasses home, took a slap on the wrist from my agent for selling them on the street and then continued doing it anyway.

And in all of these hours of painting, of mourning and finding peace, I thought of Jordan. I wished for her, throbbed for her, lay restless and awake aching for her. While time had brought me closure in some aspects of my life, it had done exactly as Malcolm had predicted and only made me more aware of what my life would be like without her.

Fear kept me away longer than even I anticipated; fear, because I wanted her, but maybe didn’t deserve her. Fear she needed someone better. Fear I wouldn’t be enough.

The only thing that spoke louder than the fear was the love. Regardless of any and all insecurities, I love her with an intensity comparable to the desert sun. She woke up those dark places inside of me and brought them to life. Jordan filled me, completely, fully. And she loved me.

Familiar sunset hair shines in the light, glistening all of those radiant colors across the courtyard. Like a flare, it brings me to my feet, ignites my senses until my body is humming in anticipation.

Home. Christ, seeing her makes me feel like I’m finally home.

I watch her while she walks, taking in all of the details I’ve gone over in my mind every night. Her hair is shorter, more texturized while it rests just past her shoulders. Her skin glows, peaches and cream against the deep-blue shirtdress she’s wearing. It’s belted at the waist, her leather lace-up shoes the same tan color as the twisted leather belt.

Concentration lines mar her brow, and though she has been steadily making her way across the courtyard toward me, she has not focused on me yet. She’s talking to some guy who is wearing a slouchy beanie and slim khakis. Every button on his collared shirt is done up—waist to throat—giving him this tidy, yet artsy look. I hate him on sight, but that may also be because every time he can, he reaches over to touch her—arm, shoulder, hand.

They walk close enough I can hear them.

“You’re thinking too defensively, Pria.”

“It’s not too defensive if the safe choice guarantees us an
A
.”

Jordan smiles. “True, but that
A
is only one point. Let’s take a hard swing and try to bat all of our runners home with this project. It’s our chance to make a statement.”

I don’t know if it’s my small chuckle, or the mere feeling of my presence, but Jordan freezes, her eyes wide when she looks over and makes direct eye contact with me. My heart stutters, the familiar pulse of anticipation and need thrumming through me now that we are looking at one another. I wait, watching her say goodbye to the hipster, who gives me the eagle eye before continuing his walk alone.

The urge to walk up to her is strong, but I wait—I’m the one who walked away. Shouldn’t it be her choice whether or not she walks toward me now that I’m back? Christ, I wish she would move.

In answer to my unspoken plea, Jordan takes a fortifying breath and walks the few feet left until she’s next to me.

“Hello, Brooklyn.”

She is going for formal—but her voice is a little unsteady and there is color high on her cheeks that wasn’t there even a second ago when she was bantering with her partner. “Red,” and then, “nice baseball analogy.”

The color gets a little deeper. Finally, she relaxes enough to laugh. My whole body sings in relief at the sound. Her shoulders drop, and she steps to the bench I was sitting on seconds ago. I sit next to her, angling my body just the slightest so I face her.

“Pria is nothing if not concerned with the safety of his grade. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this kind of discussion since we were partnered up in our programming class.”

“Sounds like you’re living out the list.”

She pauses, eyes ahead while she thinks, and then she turns to face me. “I don’t use the list. Not anymore. Maybe I never really did.”

I keep my hands where they are, dangling in front of me, my forearms on my knees, eyes on hers. “Why’s that?”

Watching her think is something I didn’t recognize I missed until this moment. Her body is still, but I can see her mind moving behind those eyes, see her calculating missteps and outcomes. Even while it pains me to wait, I feel like I could sit here and watch her make decisions all day without being bored.

“A list is something which indicates items to be checked off. A grocery list, a to-do list, a class list. All of those are done at some point.”

“But your list wasn’t a checklist.”

She shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t. It was something I wanted for myself—a feeling, a way of life.” After a deep breath, she looks me straight in the eyes again. “You showed me that those things can’t come from a list, they have to come from me. And then you reminded me of that when you left me that note.”

My heart bangs against my ribs, my breath threatens to come in pants, but I keep my eyes on hers, searching, hoping. Because it’s now or never. Shifting, I box her in on the bench, kneeling in front of her. My hands cover hers, and she looks down at them.

“Do you want to know what you taught me?” She nods her head. I brush my thumbs over her knuckles, down to her wrist and the pulse that’s galloping there. “You taught me that even in the darkest hours, I have a light. Even in the worst situations, the greatest heartache, it’s possible to be put back together if you know someone loves you.”

Her breathing stops, and then it stutters to life again. “I do—love you. I love you, Brooklyn. And I want to be the person who helps put you back together.”

“You already have.” My hands drift up her arms and shoulders to cup her neck. Fingers threaded through the underside of her hair, I use my thumbs to tilt her face up. “I love you, Jordana Richards. I had to leave, but I should have asked you for time—I should have told you that I needed you, even if I couldn’t be with you right then. And I should have told you that every day I am with you, all I need to feel whole is you.”

Those caramel eyes are liquid, tears pooling and spilling over to cascade down her cheeks. I press my lips to her cheeks, her eyes, and then, finally, her lips, drinking her in, remembering her scent and taste. The feel of her.

Her arms go around me. When I break the kiss, she presses her face into my neck and I wrap my arms around her, knelt down at her feet. “I missed you, Jordan. I needed to go—but the only thing I needed more than that was you.” I swallow. “I’m sorry—for the things I said that day at the beach. For the way I treated you and left you there. All I wanted was to love you, and somehow, that didn’t seem fair when my sister was dead.”

She leans back and cups my face. “And now?”

“And now…” I blow out a breath. “I miss her. I miss who she was, who she could have been. And I hate that she’s gone. But,” I say, tightening my hold around Jordan. “I can’t bring her back, no matter how many sacrifices I make. And I can’t step back from who I am, what I need, because I feel guilty that I couldn’t save her.”

Jordan strokes my neck and presses a kiss to my lips. “You gave her love, even when she tried to push you away, Brooklyn. Don’t ever think you didn’t save her. She might not have lived a long life, and she might have been in pain, but there was a part of her that knew, deep down, just how much you loved her. And that you would do anything for her.”

Her words soothe over me, cooling those wounds that had hardened into scar tissue with time and perspective. Now, I can think of Ashton and feel sadness, but I can also feel love for her, the sister I had for a while.

I stare at Jordan. I don’t want to let her go, to let her out of my sight, but I have to finish, have to ask because she deserves the choice. “I know it’s not fair to ask you this, Jordan, not when I don’t deserve you, but I need to know if you can be mine. All the way mine. Like I’m all the way yours.”

She smiles, pressing her lips to mine again, holding me while I hold her. “I never stopped being yours, Brooklyn. Never.” My heart blooms, expanding in my chest, until I stand and scoop her with me, pressing my lips more fully to hers while I hold her off the ground.

“I painted your face. Even when I was looking at landscapes and ruins that were thousands of years old, I always ended up painting your face.” Leaning back, I make sure she can see me, see that I mean it. “My beautiful girl with eyes the color of desert sand and sunset hair. What did I do to deserve you?”

Those eyes warm even further. “You gave me yourself.”

And then she kisses me, slow and deep and long, bringing my air into her lungs, breathing hers into me. I change the angle, holding her around the waist with one arm and using my free hand to cup her neck. I want to devour her, worship her, love her with everything I have, everything I am.

When we break for air, her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen. “Want to walk me back to my dorm? I think someone there might like to see you, too.”

I hold her hand through campus, winding through the old and new buildings, watching the wind blow flowers off trees and throw them across the world. A world that makes little sense, but still has a way of giving some of us the one thing we need to survive it.

I have Mal, Hunter, and Nala. I have the memory of Ashton, and the girl she was before she was taken too soon. And now I have Jordan, the girl who showed me life isn’t just about loving others and taking care of them, making sacrifices for them. It’s about loving ourselves, and allowing others to love us, fears and all.       

Epilogue

Jordan

The lights to the quaint little bistro lounge are just starting to glow. It’s not yet eight o’clock, but the early summer sun is setting, the orange burning a fire in the sky. I step up the small steps to the front of the empty restaurant and pause, smoothing a hand over my black seemed pencil dress.

I’m twenty minutes early, as requested by Brooklyn. He came over hours ago to set his paintings up the way he wanted; this is his first show in almost two years, and he’s been consumed in the last month with making certain everything was perfect. Now, he’s allowing the world, both art and regular, into his heart, and I get to be the first.

Pressing through the heavy wooden door with glass fronts, I look around immediately. The lounge is closed to the public for the evening; per the artist’s request, the showing is invitation only. A mere one hundred guests were invited—select art enthusiasts, Brooklyn’s family, some press. If the response is good, there will be another showing, a larger one, but for now, Brooklyn wanted something he could control.

The large, dark bar-top sits in the center of the small space, the usually crowded dining floor around it empty except for some high top tables with Mason Jar candles, and the strategic display of art on walls and easels. I want to look at the portraits he chose, but my eyes scan and find him first, standing with his back to me, staring out at the Pacific with its burning night sky.

He’s wearing a white Henley shirt with dark jeans and desert boots. His hair is tied back off his face, his long sleeves pushed up to reveal his powerful forearms, the art on his body as much a part of him as the art around us. His large form fills the window, and I take a second to admire him and everything he is before he turns and spots me.

I don’t have to say anything because he is already walking toward me, those broad shoulders and powerful muscles shifting noticeably under his clothing. He remains silent when he steps up to me; even in my three inch Stuart Weitzman ankle strap stilettos, I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“Hi.” The word comes out of me on a sigh. Brooklyn reaches his hand up and curves it around my neck, sinking his fingers into the hair I left loose to hang over my shoulders.

He whispers his lips across the skin of my neck, dipping his head and brushing my hair aside to nuzzle along my shoulder, my throat, up to my ear.

“Jordana.” He breathes my name quietly, reverently—something he’s done a lot since he returned a few months ago, as if he can’t quite believe we’re here together. Then his lips descend, capturing mine. He pulls me closer, his free hand going to my hip and stroking down, and then up, before resting on my waist.

I follow his lead, my mouth moving under his in a slow dance, tongues tangling, hearts beating. I feel him grow hard against me, and my head goes light.

When he finally pulls back, his lips take the same journey from jaw, to ear, to neck, down to the curvature of my shoulder. Then he steps back enough to look at me, linking my left hand with his right.

His eyes scan me from head to toe. “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

His grin is slow and amused. Bringing my hand to his lips, he keeps those midnight eyes on me. I can see his passion, but it’s mixed with nerves and I know he’s not sure how to do this. Brooklyn Novak, the person who would battle hell for anyone he loved, is not sure how to show the world his heart.