“I think you know me well enough to know,” William replied. “That I’m always in the
mood for lasagna.”
“Just wanted to make sure,” Casey teased. “You may have woken up with a craving for
worms.”
“I don’t think that would ever happen,” William said with a chuckle. “Though you
may have kicked the cravings out of me last night.”
“Did I kick you in my sleep?” Casey asked, shocked.
“You did,” William said. “At five this morning. You muttered something about May.”
Casey’s smile faded.
“I.” She stopped, glancing around the room. “I don’t recall anything about May.”
“No worries,” William said. “I probably deserved it for something.”
She hopped off the counter and walked to the door leading to the garage. William
followed.
She was still in the process of making the garage into her art studio. Against the
back wall by the refrigerator, hundreds of paintings Casey had completed were
stacked. She placed a couch on the far wall. In the center of
the room, there stood an easel. From the entrance, he could only see the back of
the canvas.
“It was weird,” Casey said, her expression blank. “The dream. I remember bits and
pieces of it.”
She walked up to the easel and grabbed a tube of light pink paint. She squeezed it,
and the paint splattered onto the palette.
“We had a baby girl. We were young,” she said. “Really young.”
Casey began adding paint to the canvas. William couldn’t see the front of the
canvas from his angle. He wanted to walk around to see what she painted but he