Page 29 of My Brother’s Best Friend

The safest course of action in either scenario was to just let it go. To do my best to forget about it. And to avoid Jordan, just in case. Bringing it up again would only risk exposing my true feelings, if he hadn’t figured them out yet.

The person I had heard from, finally, was Miller. At six a.m., I’d gotten a string of messages in the app, apologetic and rushed.

MILLER: Quincy, I am SO sorry

MILLER: I got caught up with family stuff, and by the time I got down to The Port Hole, you were already gone, but I’d forgotten my phone, so I couldn’t message you

MILLER: And then when I got home, I was pretty sure you hated me and wouldn’t want to hear from me again

MILLER: Which I totally wouldn’t blame you for, by the way

MILLER: But I’ve felt guilty all night and I finally decided I should at least reach out and explain what happened. If you want to get together tonight—at The Port Hole or anywhere else—I’d love to. But I understand if you don’t

MILLER: Your call

I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that. I’d been certain Miller had stood me up. If he really had come late, he might have even seen me talking to Jordan last night. Not that he had any idea what I looked like.

If he was looking for a guy sitting by himself, though, my evening with Jordan had ruined that. But I didn’t regret it. Not up until the end, anyway. Still, I wasn’t sure how to respond to Miller, so I just ignored it.

Thankfully, after a morning spent revising my last chapter, I had lunch with my grandparents, which took my mind off both the guys who were throwing it for a loop. Ever since my grandfather’s stroke, we’d gotten together each Saturday at noon.

They’d moved into a retirement community in Palmetto, a sprawling complex with individual bungalows, twin homes, and larger buildings set amidst rolling hills filled with bougainvillea, hibiscus, and a network of paved trails.

No one responded when I rang the bell, which was odd. Usually, Nana was pretty quick to come to the door. I waited a moment and rang again. Still, no one came.

I thought I could hear voices coming from the back patio, though. I was just about to push through the fronds of salvia and fuchsia and go see for myself when the front door opened, revealing my rosy-cheeked, paint-spattered grandmother.

“Cameron!” she exclaimed. “Oh, drat, I knew I was forgetting something. I should have called you.”

She pulled me into a hug, then gasped when she released me, her eyes going to my chest. I looked down. My shirt was now decorated in splotches of paint.

“My goodness.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t know where my brain is these days. Well, come on in. We’ll throw that into the wash and get you clean in a jiffy.”

She ushered me into the bungalow’s cheerful living room. Tasseled textiles and collages of sculptural metal jostled for space on the walls, and banana trees soaked up the sun streaming through the broad front windows. Their teak wood furniture was covered in garish throw pillows.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, gesturing to my shirt. “I can just wash it when I get home. But what are you doing covered in paint? And why should you have called?”

“Because of the painting lesson!” Nana said, bustling down the main hall, past the guest room, bathroom, and master bedroom, before emerging into the green-and-blue tiled kitchen at the back of the house. She snorted. “Here I am, worried about your grandfather’s health, and yet it’s my mind that’s going. I need to do more crosswords, is what I need. Would you like some lemonade, sweetheart?”

“I…sure?” A painting lesson explained her current appearance, but why she’d arranged for one was still a mystery.

“In my defense,” she said as she pulled the pitcher from the fridge, “I only set it up yesterday, and I wasn’t entirely sure the young man would come. I think I might have scared him a little. Poor dear. He was practically shell-shocked that anyone liked his work. Tried to claim he didn’t usually offer lessons either. I wonder if I should buy some of his paintings. Give him a confidence boost. Maybe three, or four? Do you think that would be enough?”

“I think you should think about wall space first,” I said with a laugh. “I’m not sure you have any room.”

I was still a little confused, but I had enough experience with Nana to know that the last thing she needed was more artwork. She was a magpie for anything brightly colored or homemade, and she adored ‘adopting’ local artists. It baffled me how someone as warm and generous as she was could produce a person as cold as my father.

“Oh, piffle.” She waved her hand dismissively as she grabbed a glass from the cupboard. “I can always find more room.”

“Aren’t you going to need some room for your own paintings?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m not making anything worth keeping.” She handed me the glass. “Though that’s a good point—Arthur might like to see some of his own work hanging up.”

“Grandpa’s painting?”

My grandfather was more the type to fish or fix cars in stoic silence. Of course, he hadn’t been able to do either since his stroke, but still. I couldn’t imagine him with a paintbrush in his hands.

“Of course, dear! That’s why I arranged the lesson in the first place. I read something about art therapy a while back, and when I saw those paintings the other day, it hit me. This is just what your grandfather needs. It’s supposed to help with fine motor skills, and art heals a deeper part of us as well, don’t you think?”