“Easton. What are you doing here?”
I fold Adler’s patient file—a blown-out knee—and am so surprised to see Easton here, in the locker room, when I never thought he’d step foot in here again.
“I wanted to take my girlfriend out for lunch.”
I eye him suspiciously because this does not sound like the man I know. “Is this a cover-up for some prank you’re pulling on one of the guys when they come back from their road trip?”
“Who me?” He blinks innocently enough and yet there’s always that mischievous little boy underneath who I don’t trust but love knowing is still there. “Seriously, I know you’re done with rehab for the day—I just talked to Adler on his way out—so come on. Let’s go.”
“Where in the world are you taking me?” I sip my chocolate milkshake while he swings our joined hands between us. The sun is out, the humidity not too horrible, and I have a belly full of all kinds of bad-for-you food Easton insisted we have.
“So you’re a clue kind of girl, huh? You just can’t jump right into a surprise, you have to prepare yourself for it?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of a surprise? The not knowing what is going to happen?” he asks and leans over and kisses my temple.
“Yeah, but you told me there was one, so now I know it’s going to happen.” I laugh. This line of conversation is ridiculous and amusing.
“What if I told you, there was no waiting because we’re here?”
Startled, I glance at the lush greenery around us and take in the rows of cinderblock walls covered in graffiti. Beautiful, artistic graffiti but graffiti nonetheless.
“It’s oddly beautiful,” I say as I move toward the murals. They are amazing and profound in all their colorful uniqueness. As I walk through them, I can’t resist reaching out to touch some of them and then standing back, trying to figure out what the others mean.
Easton follows me and his silent observation makes me nervous. “It’s called the HOPE Outdoor Gallery.”
“HOPE?”
“Helping Other People Everywhere.”
“But it’s graffiti. How is that helping people?”
“It started out as a movement to raise awareness about socially conscious issues. In reality, it’s just a bunch of artists and musicians who come together to be active and donate their proceeds to certain causes.” I walk a few feet as I mull over his explanation but don’t understand what this has to do with these graffiti-covered walls. He must read my expression because he begins to explain. “These are murals made by some of the artists. They all deal with different issues close to their hearts.”
“They’re fascinating.”
“Are you ready to add your mark to one of them?”
“What?” I whip my head toward him, eyes narrowed, and nose scrunched up.
“We have a little section over here that’s ours to do as we wish.” He begins to walk to the backside of a wall.
“But wait—how—I can’t paint for shit.”
His laugh rings out and echoes off the walls around us. “It’s art. Isn’t it subjective?”
“Subjective, my ass.” I stand with my hands on my hips trying to figure this out. “But I don’t understand . . .”
“I did an event with the founder a few years back. I thought this place was pretty cool and since then have been a silent contributor to some of their causes. So in turn, I have a little section I get to screw up. On the backside of a wall. In the corner—”
“So no one sees it,” I finish for him with a laugh.
“Exactly. So it doesn’t matter how horrible we make it, it only matters that we make it,” he says as he picks up a bucket full of spray paint that seems to materialize out of nowhere. “They knew we were coming.” He winks but I just shake my head and stand my ground.
I look at the many walls around me. I take in their beauty and creativity and feel like I could study them for hours and still not decipher all their hidden meanings. And yet when I glance back at Easton, everything about him commands my attention. He stands in the tall grass amid walls painted in every color imaginable, and yet it’s his true colors that shine the brightest—time and again—and steal every damn piece of my heart.
He smiles that crooked smile of his as he holds a can of paint out to me. “C’mon, Scout, you know you want to try it.”
“I do,” I say, fingers itching to, “but my skills are lacking in the creativity department.”
“We’re back on proving skills again, now are we?”
I roll my eyes and take the can from him. “So we can paint anything we want?”
“Anything.”
“Challenge accepted.”
“It looks horrible.” My cheeks hurt from laughing so hard and my fingers are cramped and coated in a vast array of spray paint colors.
“Horrible is putting it kindly.”
“Hey, be nice.” I swat at him, but he grabs my hand and pulls me against him. His lips are on mine without hesitation. The breeze blows around us. The grass tickles my bare legs. We smell like the distinct scent of spray paint. But the taste of his kiss is the cherry on the top of this perfect day.
“Is that nice enough?” he asks when he ends the kiss.
“Definitely. I like nice. Maybe we can be even nicer later.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Pervert.”
“And your point is?” I ask coyly.
“Nothing. You’re perfect as you are.” His smile is wide as his eyes leave mine and glance over my shoulder at our combined graffiti. “Just like that is.”
I turn to face our wall. It’s crude at best compared to the other skilled murals around us, but it’s totally us.
“Have a day” is written across the top of the wall. Drips of paint, where I held the can too close make lines down the lettering. There’s an open book on the wall. One page filled with letters going all different ways. The other page filled with the picture of a baseball diamond. There’s a horrible blob of brown that was Easton’s attempt at a fortune cookie. Just looking at it, I smile thinking of how hard we laughed as we tried to make it look better but only resulted in making it look worse. The same goes with my attempt at outlining a dog. At least the ears and tail can be made out. Then there’s a crudely painted kitty cat in one corner with a number forty-four for our signature.
It’s horrible at best but every single thing on it—all the way down to the round circles that are supposed to be Life Savers—reflects something meaningful to us.
I reach out and link my fingers with his, so thankful for this change of pace and reminder of what matters most. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“You’re welcome.” He stares at me for a beat before looking back to the wall, hesitating to say the words I can tell are on his lips. “I called Finn earlier.”
“Okay.” I draw the word out. He always calls Finn. What’s the big deal?
“I asked him to get me a second shot at the World Series broadcast.”
“You what?” Startled, I turn to look at him, but he keeps staring at the picture in front of us. I squeeze his fingers to let him know I understand how scary this is for him. How he’s opening himself up to everything he fears . . . and doing so publicly.
“I’m proud of you, Easton.”