When I was finished, I straightened my back, feeling stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. I stretched and held up the pad in front of my face and couldn’t help but smile.

The style was uniquely mine. Tangles of long hair becoming snakes as they reached down from the sky. Fingers sprouting up from the ground like talons.

It was warped. It was fucked up.

But it looked pretty freaking awesome.

I knew that I was good. Enough people had told me throughout the years that I believed it.

I thought with regret about that meeting with Mr. Randall all those months ago. I had really messed up something good.

It was the story of my life.

I walked over to the corner of my room where I had stacked at least two dozen canvases. I slowly went through them, pulling out the ones that stood out. The ones that best demonstrated my ability.

Feeling impulsive, I pulled out my wallet and found the card Tatum Randall had given me over six months ago. I was actually surprised I had kept it.

Maybe there was a part of me, even when I was bombed out of my mind, that held on to this small possibility.

I quickly dialed the number on the crisp, white card before I could talk myself out of it. I chewed on my thumbnail as the phone rang and rang.

“Bellview Gallery, how can I help you?” a woman’s voice chirped in my ear.

“Um, hi, is Mr. Randall available?” I croaked.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Maxx— I mean X,” I fumbled, sounding like a moron.

“X?” the lady asked incredulously.

I gritted my teeth. “Yes, X. He’ll know me,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Okay, then, hold on. Let me see if he’s still here.”

I was put on hold and had to listen to five minutes of really bad elevator music.

Just when the horrible strains of John Tesh were about to send me over the edge, the phone clicked.

“X. Hello. I must say I’m rather surprised to hear from you,” Mr. Randall said. He sounded cold and less than thrilled.

“Yes, I understand. I didn’t make the best impression when we met,” I said, hating to grovel, but what other choice did I have?

“I believe that is an understatement,” Mr. Randall scoffed.

He was starting to piss me off and I had to work hard to rein myself in.

“Yes, well, I wasn’t in a very good place back then. Things have changed considerably since then.” I paused a moment, mentally preparing myself to beg.

“I wanted to know if you’d still be interested in seeing my work. I’ve put together some amazing pieces—”

“X, after our last meeting, I think it’s safe to say that you wouldn’t be a good fit for my gallery.”

I felt myself bristle at his automatic rejection.

“Sir, I get that I was a bit of a mess. I was dealing with some stuff. Not that that excuses my horrible behavior. But I don’t think it’s exactly fair—”

“Look, I’m sure there are a lot of other galleries out there that would be interested in you and your . . . eccentricities.” The jackass wouldn’t let me get a word in. “But Bellview Gallery isn’t that place. I’m sorry.”

I felt what little hope I had about possibly using my art to generate a livable income dwindle away.

I crumpled up my pride into a tiny ball and shoved it away. “Sir. Please. Just give me another chance. I think you’ll change your mind if you just see my work. My real work.” I sounded desperate. He had to hear it in my voice.

Mr. Randall was quiet for a bit. I chewed through the skin on my lip and tasted blood, the sharp sting keeping me grounded.

“I’m sorry, X. When I saw your street art I thought you were a different artist. I thought you were someone I could promote and nurture. Unfortunately, the impression you gave wasn’t one of someone ready to work hard and take their talent seriously. I just can’t take that risk. Not right now.” He actually sounded a bit sorry.

But he wasn’t as sorry as I was.

I couldn’t beg anymore.

“Okay, then. Well, thank you for your time.” I felt despondent. Dejected. Lost.

“Best of luck, X. I really mean that,” Mr. Randall said, sounding sincere.

I wanted to tell him where to shove his unnecessary well wishes.

But I held my tongue.

I hung up the phone and looked at the canvases propped against the wall.

I was quickly getting tired of being kicked when I was already down.

In a fit of anger I hurled the pictures across the room.

The one of Aubrey I had painted after getting out of rehab was split down the middle.

Broken and ruined.

Just like me.

chapter

nineteen

aubrey

i was drinking so much coffee that I threatened to float away. My caffeine drive had kicked up a notch now that I was making random stops at the Coffee Jerk throughout the day. I swear I was going to have to start earning stock options, given how much money I gave them.

“Hello again. Here for round two?” Maxx asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Yep,” I said, my mouth popping around the word.

“Caramel latte, extra foam?” he asked, already punching in my regular order.

“Yep,” I said again, feeling suddenly embarrassed. Our eyes met and clung for a moment before I broke the heated stare off. I looked away and pointed to a table near the door. “I’ll be over there,” I said quickly.

I sat down and put my bag on the table. I pulled out a packet of information and laid it out on the table. I looked down at the glossy pages. The words Department of Education stood out in a bright yellow. I opened up the catalogue and started thumbing through, looking at the offered classes: Teaching Principles, Classroom Learning Assessment, Classroom Management.

I had been thinking about my future a lot lately, and whether I was on the right path. My confidence in my ability to be a professional counselor had been shaken, and despite my efforts to put my best foot forward, I was terrified of failing again.

“Here ya go,” Maxx said quietly, sliding the steaming mug in front of me. “Department of Education certification in elementary teaching?”

I wanted to tell him to leave. To mind his own business. Instead I found myself telling him the truth. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just thinking through some other options.”

Then Maxx was sitting down across from me. “I thought being a counselor is what you wanted to do.” He looked concerned and I had a hard time meeting his eyes. I worried he’d be able to see straight through me as he had always been able to do.

I shrugged. “When I was a kid I wanted to be a teacher. That only changed after Jayme died. I just think that maybe I made my career choice based on the wrong reasons.” Why was I vomiting up honesty all over the place? And to Maxx, of all people? The last person I wanted to see into the heart of me.

“How is wanting to help people the wrong reason?” Maxx argued, frowning.

“How is this any of your business?” I asked coldly. Maxx sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, not put out by my pissy attitude.

“It’s not, I guess. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know anyway. I’m here if you want to talk.”

He was being sincere. I could see how much he wanted me to accept his offer. It would be so easy to open my mouth and tell him everything. To forge a type of intimacy that we had never really experienced together. We never had the chance to connect on a level separate from the angst and turmoil.

But I didn’t say anything.

I ignored him, my eyes trained on the booklet in front of me, not really seeing it. After a few awkward moments, Maxx cleared his throat. “Okay, well, enjoy your coffee. I’ll talk to you later.”

Aubrey, you are an idiot, I chastised myself. I turned to look at Maxx, who was walking back to the counter, his shoulders slumped. I opened my mouth to say something.