Rose Grove - (H.S.)

18

"It has nothing to do with music, I guess it's just similar in a way," he gives me more vague information that doesn't truly help.

I shake my head and stare at the white ceiling above me. I begin thinking of occupations that may be associated with music but wouldn't make him a musician. Writing, maybe? Musicians write song lyrics. "A poet?" I ask with furrowed brows, thinking that seems like something he'd do.

He shakes his head with a laugh. "No, you're bad at this. Still warm though," he takes his hand off of the neck of the guitar and runs it through my hair that must be knotted to Hell by now.

"This isn't fair, you know what I do," I begin getting frustrated and he breathes out a laugh at my sudden outburst.

"Well, obviously. That's how we met," he tilts his head at me.

"Whatever," I roll my eyes. "Do you make art? Musicians make art?" I say the last thing that comes to mind, assuming that wouldn't be correct either.

He nods. "Bingo. I'm a painter," he finally tells me I'm correct.

I sit up and look at him astonished. "You paint?" I ask. From his personality alone it makes sense and I should've considered something along those lines from the beginning, but I can't help but feel shocked.

He smiles at me and nods. "Yeah. It was a hobby at first but I channeled a lot of the feelings from Winter's death into my work, and it became a full time career," he explains.

"You don't talk about her much," I say, regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I know grief is so complex and him not speaking about her might be a part of that, but I'm curious about her. I want to know every part of him.

He shrugs. "I just wasn't sure if you were ready for the dead girlfriend talk," he says quietly.

"I'm ready whenever you are. If you want to talk about her, I'm all ears," I say as my hands find his and squeeze them comfortingly.

He laughs and shakes his head. "It's funny that the first thing that comes to mind is her accent. She was from the deep south, it was the first thing I noticed about her," he smiles widely.

I hum happily when I see him speaking about her with a smile on his face. You can tell someone is healing when they can recall happy memories and feel the joy they bring. "I'm assuming that's where Autie got her attitude," I tease.

"You're joking, but that's true," he sighs, "She was a firecracker, and I see that in Autie every day."

"I'm sure that makes you feel closer to her," I say as I bring his hand up to my mouth and place a small kiss on top of it.

"It does, had Autumn not existed I don't know how I would've gotten through it. She's my rock and if I ever miss Winter I see bits of her in Autumn's nose and her humor. She got her looks from me, but her personality is all her mother's," he goes on as he begins strumming the guitar again. "I'm sorry if this is weird for you," he looks up at me with anxious eyes.

"Not at all. You loved her, and you always will. I understand and accept that. I never want you to lose those feelings, no matter how you feel about me," I reassure him as emotion begins to create a lump in my throat.

"Thank you, Della," he says somberly.

"Why are you thanking me?" I furrow my brows.

He shrugs. "I never thought moving on was in my cards. I always wanted to feel a connection with someone again, maybe even give Autumn a mother figure. I just couldn't do it, but then came Della," he smiles before leaning in and kissing my lips a few times. "You've shown me so much about myself in such little time, you're a sorcerer," he chuckles as he pulls away from me.