Page 86 of A Sea of Unspoken Things

Thirty

The city had no soul.

I stood in the window of Red Giant Collective, watching the twinkling lights of San Francisco glitter in the hills. It was impossible not to compare it to the wild, hot-blooded forest. The city had its own skin and bones and there was something about it that felt alive, but the mystical hum that lived in Six Rivers was an animal that couldn’t survive here. Not even the hungry waves of the Pacific could find a home in the bay.

My glass of champagne grew warm and flat as I watched the people stream in and out. The slip dress I’d ordered rippled in the breeze coming through the door, and I was cold beneath the blue silk. Like I was too far from the fire of home. I also felt like I was too far from Johnny.

I hadn’t felt his presence since I’d gotten back, and I’d kept busy to distract myself from that sense of quiet. That stillness felt too much like loneliness, and the more days that went by, the farther from him I was.

I’d left Six Rivers only a few days ago, and I imagined myself as an astronaut, drifting through space with no tether. That’s what it waslike being up on the hill that looked out over the lights, far from the scent of evergreens and the taste of rain in the air.

The show would get a glowing review in theSan Francisco Chronicle.The editor who’d come by invitation to the small soiree had told me as much, saying that the pieces werereliable.That word was still chiming in my head, like a sound I couldn’t decipher the meaning of.

When a face I recognized finally walked through the door, I felt myself relax a little, walking toward him. Quinn hadn’t waited for my invitation this time, and now I found that I was glad. He felt like a small connection to Johnny in this foreign place. A confirmation that my brother was real. That he was here. That he wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

Quinn shrugged off his jacket and handed it to the host, beaming when he saw me. His black tux made him look taller and he’d gotten a haircut. When his gaze traveled down my body, his eyes grew hungry.

“James.” He took my elbow, kissing me on the cheek. “You look quite beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Quinn spotted my trio of paintings on the east wall. “These are yours,” he said, not questioning.

“They are,” I answered.

“You really are amazing, James.”

“Sarah Manchester at theChroniclesays they’re reliable,” I said, eyes roaming over the largest painting in the middle. “Any idea what that means?”

Quinn frowned, eyes focusing on the details. “I think it means that people know what they are going to get from a James Golden piece. That you’re consistent.”

I considered that, measuring the painting against the other two I had in the show. The abstract textures and melting colors made more of a feeling than an image. It was meant to take its shape in the eye of the beholder. But looking at it now, it just appeared as a mess.

“What do you see?” I asked him, really wanting to know.

Quinn looked delighted by the question. He turned to the painting again, taking a long pause. “I see a sunset over the water?” He arched an eyebrow at me, as if looking for confirmation.

I smiled weakly. “Yeah,” I lied.

Quinn brightened. “Yeah?”

I nodded. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was no right answer. That there’d been little inspiration behind the piece at all. I didn’tseeanything anymore when I painted. I didn’t feel anything, either. Even looking at it now, there was nothing in me that felt connected to the canvas. Had it been that way before I left for Six Rivers? I couldn’t remember now.

“Can I get you a fresh one?” He looked down at my glass.

“Sure. Thanks, Quinn.”

He lifted it from my fingers, melting into the crowd, and I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering. The sound of the cello somewhere in the gallery was a vibration on my skin, making it hard to tell if the goosebumps were from the music or from the cold.

Across the room, Quinn had already gotten caught in conversation and a few attendees had begun to crowd around him. That’s how it was everywhere he went. He was respected and had influence. There wasn’t a foundation in the whole state that wasn’t trying to give him money for something. Most importantly, he was kind, and for the last year and a half, he’d been patiently pursuing me. I couldn’t think of a single sensible reason for why I’d resisted.

I stared at the painting again, willing myself to feelsomething.Anything. I held my breath, like I was listening for a heartbeat.

A horn honked outside as the cello finished its suite, interrupting the last prolonged note, and again, I itched for the silence of the forest. For the claustrophobic cabin and the firelight at the gorge.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Sir.”

A woman wedged past me and I stepped aside, thinking that when I turned around, I would find Quinn waiting, champagne glass in hand. But the eyes that met mine made me let go of that breath I was holding, and all of a sudden, I could hear that heartbeat.