Page 36 of All Your Dreams

“Many things,” I tell him. “For example, I used to paint the ocean a lot in San Diego. Making the waves permanent on the canvas would always clear my head and give me more energy.”

Ollie tilts his head, studying me. “Sounds like painting was your version of a reset button.”

“Exactly. I’d put on music and get lost in the beauty of it.”

“Would you like to paint Tilly’s room? The white walls are pretty boring.”

It's such a simple offer, yet it feels like he’s handing me back a piece of myself I'd lost.

“Oh, I’m absolutely painting the wall across from her crib,” I say, picturing the mural in my mind.

“It sounds like you have an idea.”

“A wildflower field with bursts of color everywhere. And the top half fades into a pale blue sky. I want her growing up in the middle of her own meadow...unless you’re scared of a little color.”

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Scared of color? Peyton, I airbrush designs on cars for living. I’ve blended paints so clean they look poured on. I think I can handle a few poppies on her wall.”

“So that’s a yes?” I ask, biting back a smile.

There’s a pause as he watches me, genuine excitement shining in those captivating blue eyes. “We’ll get paints on our way home. There’s one of those home improvement stores a few blocks down.”

“If we were not in the middle of eating brunch, I would hug you right now. I’m that excited!” He laughs, so I ask, “What about you? Any secret hobbies?”

Ollie takes a long sip of his drink before answering. “Pottery. Not that I’m some artsy master or anything, but there’s this sense of satisfaction about getting messy and making something out of clay with my hands. It’s like hitting a reset button for me, too, after a long day at work.”

Of course he does pottery. Because apparently running a custom auto shop all day isn’t enough. No, he also spends his free time making things with those steady, capable hands. My brain supplies an image of him at a pottery wheel, sleeves pushed up while he concentrates on shaping clay. It’s easy to picture, probably because Ollie is the kind of person who likes working with his hands no matter the project.

Trying my best at sounding nonchalant, I say, “Pottery, huh? I didn’t see that coming.”

“I even have a studio,” he shares. “Before Tills came into my life, I used to take at least a few hours each week to work there.”

“Wait, a studio? Where?”

“Behind the other door in the hallway leading to the apartment.”

My mouth hangs open. “Seriously? I thought it was a storage room. I’d love to see it.”

“Maybe I’ll let you.”

Before I can reply, Tilly lets out a squeal, and the older woman beside us beams again. “She’s such a happy baby,” she says.

Ollie smiles politely. “She has her moments.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing, because that’s the understatement of the century. The older man squeezes his wife’s hand, and I catch myself staring. It’s not envy exactly. It’s more about longing for steadiness that lasts. For a love that still holds hands through meals when your boys are in their fifties.

When we finish eating, Ollie insists on paying. I start to protest out of reflex, but he gives me a look that tells me not to bother. “I invited you,” he reasons. “It’s on me.”

“Thank you.”

Outside, the weather is warmer and sunnier. I carry the flowers, lifting them to my nose when Ollie isn’t looking. We walk slowly, not in a rush to get back to the apartment.

“Thank you,” I say again, because the two words feel important.

“For brunch?”

“For today.”

Ollie glances over, his expression softer than usual. “You deserved it.”