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Piper

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“His name was Rory.”

I turn at the sound of Griffin’s voice behind me. I’ve just exited my apartment on my way to the store. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him.

I’ve wanted to reach out to him numerous times, but I always stopped myself. Sebastian gave me the strength to do that.

He came into the gallery a week after we were both ordered out of Griffin’s apartment. He brought me a gift. It was a painting by the same artist who had created the masterpieces that hang in Griffin’s home office.

The artist is Rory Kent, Griffin’s late brother. 

I didn’t press for more details than that.

I wanted to hear the story from Griffin when he was ready.

“Do you want to come in?” I touch the door of my apartment. “We can talk inside.”

He nods as he approaches. “I’m sorry, Piper.”

“I know,” I say quietly as I open the door.

He follows me through in silence, closing and locking the door behind us. “I’ve spent all this time trying to come up with the right words.”

I move toward the sofa, tossing my keys and my purse on an armchair. “They don’t have to be the right words. They just need to be honest.”

He waits for me to take a seat before he settles in beside me.

I reach to grab his hands and pull them into my lap. I finally look right at him. A light beard covers his jaw and his hair is in desperate need of a trim. He’s not wearing a suit and tie today even though it’s Tuesday morning.

Today, he’s dressed much like I am, in jeans and a T-shirt.

“My brother Rory painted those pictures you saw at my place.” His hands shake. “He was only seventeen when he created most of them.”

“Seventeen,” I repeat back. “They’re incredible.”

He nods sullenly. “He was like you. He wanted to be an artist. It was his dream.”

Was...the word that distinguishes promise from loss.

“He died.” His voice quakes. “Suicide.”

I lower my head when the rush of tears hit me. “I’m so sorry.”

I hear his swallow. “He hung himself in the bedroom of my parents’ house in Connecticut.”

“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for your family.”

“We all died in a sense that day.” He reaches for my hand and I grab tightly to him. “My dad disappeared into himself, my brother Draven fought through bitter anger. He still does.”

I start to ask about him, but he squeezes my hand.

“My mom was broken,” he goes on. “Rory was her baby.”

“Losing a child must be devastating,” I offer. “Losing a brother as well.”

He looks at me with tears in his eyes. “We fought that day.”

I struggle to control a sob. It’s guilt. That’s what has wrapped itself so tightly around his heart. He feels guilt over his brother’s death.

“He had been accepted to an art school out in Los Angeles.” He shakes his head. “Some prestigious place that only takes the brightest and best.”

Conrad School of the Arts. I’d applied there too. I didn’t get in.

“He was so smart, so fucking smart and we wanted him to be a doctor.”

I nod through a veil of tears.

He exhales roughly. “That morning I told him that art would never be enough. I insisted he apply to Harvard or Yale. I told him to his face that if he didn’t follow a more traditional path that he’d always regret it.”

“You were trying to steer him in the direction you thought was best,” I say quietly.

“I wanted the best for him.” He nods. “My dad too.”

I move closer to him, pressing my body next to his. “You can’t fault yourself for wanting the best for someone you love.”

“He asked me point blank if I thought his paintings were any good. If I thought he’d ever see one in a museum or an exhibit.”

I stare into his eyes, knowing the answer already. It’s what tears this beautiful man apart every day of his life.

“I told him they were good, but not good enough.”

“Griffin,” I whisper his name as I rest my forehead against his. “It’s not your fault.”

“He was a soft soul.” He catches a sob in his throat. “He looked up to me. He followed me around for years, wanting to be like me. That kid craved my acceptance.”

“You can’t keep blaming yourself.”

“After I left my parents’ place that morning to drive back to the city, he called me.” He presses his cheek to mine. “I didn’t give him a chance to say a word. I just railed on him about expectations and responsibilities.”

He drops his head down. “He was gone a few hours later.”

I reach for his face and cradle it in my palms. “He didn’t die because of you, Griffin.”

Tears streak his cheeks. “He did, Piper. If I had understood the depth of his talent back then, I would have paid for art school. I had no idea.”

“How could you have known?”

“I thought it was a frivolous choice. He kept those paintings hidden in his room.” He exhales roughly. “My mom was the only one behind him and I drowned out her voice.”

“His paintings are intense.” I look at him. “There is so much pain in them. He was a tortured soul, Griffin.”

“Sebastian and Dylan have said the same thing.”

“Sometimes an artist uses their medium as a catalyst for their pain. I believe your brother did that.” I blow out a breath. “He put everything he was feeling into each stroke of his brush. He captured his internal struggles on canvas.”

He nods in silence.

“Whatever drove him to take his own life was much bigger than what you two argued about.” I feel a tear well in the corner of my eye. “He was in pain for a long time, Griffin.”

“I wish I would have understood this when he was alive.” He searches my eyes. “To my family, they were just paintings. We couldn’t see beneath their surface.”

“He was brilliant.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m in awe of what he created.”

“I want to show you more of his work.” He strokes my hair. “I want to tell you more about him.”

Reaching up, I take his hand in mine. “I’d love that.”