his leaving for her leaving. The last thing he expected was the next words to come out of his mother’s mouth.
“I can take you to her.”
Dylan missed a step and stumbled. She can’t mean that. Not what I’m thinking. But he didn’t take his next step towards the door. “Who do you mean?” he asked, keeping his tone as nondescript as possible. “The girl you’ve been dreaming about,” she said, and Dylan’s gut flipped cartwheels. “I’m here to take you to her.”
# # #
The wind coming off the bay was sharp, even in summer, slicing through clothing and skin alike to drive cold deep into the bones; but Abby had grown up in even colder climes, and she barely noticed the chill. Her attention was focused on the canvas in front of her, the image painted on it slowly gaining definition and life as she applied brushstroke after brushstroke. Every now and then, she would stop and look around, chewing on the end of her brush, the tip held in her mouth by long, pale, delicate fingers. All the while, she hummed to herself a tune of her own devising, an improvisation to fit the rise and fall of her mood.
Made with FlippingBook - Online magazine maker