A few blonde curls fall into my eyes as I stretch my arms out, and I hastily blow them away. Once again, I didn’t bother to straighten my hair after my warm shower last night—I needed to rinse Matt’s buttery saliva trails from my skin—so of course my locks are a poofy mess, which is why I hate showering at night!

Holding the paintbrush between my teeth, I quickly pull my hair into a haphazard bun and imprison my curls.

Sunlight pours in through my bedroom window, warming the floorboards beneath my feet as I wiggle my toes and stare at the blank canvas.

Still staring.

A good twenty minutes goes by before I finally set my brush to it, and when I do, it’s a giant black stroke. Then another. I brush at the canvas until it’s nearly covered in darkness. I add white. I smudge it into gray. I change my mind and jab more black on there.

I don’t know what I’m painting yet, but that’s not unusual. I typically don’t know where I’m going when I start a painting. The image just… happens, and sometimes it’s not even a real image. Sometimes—most times, lately—it’s just an array of colors and brushstrokes that feel like something more than look like something.

A few quick knocks pull my attention to my door.

“Come in,” I call out.

It creaks open and Ellen steps inside with two canvases. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” I say. “And thanks for lending me your spare keys yesterday too. My set is lost somewhere in this mess.” I gesture at the mounds of laundry, books, and boxes about my room.

“No problem.” She sets the canvases by the wall and watches me paint for a moment. “Why is everything you paint only black-and-white? What happened to those beautiful color paintings you used to do?”

Why does everyone care?

“Don’t overthink it,” I say. “I’m just in a phase.”

“Right,” she says with knowing eyes. “Well. Enjoy your day off.” She turns and disappears into the hallway.

I go back to painting, thinking about all the times Ellen encouraged me to pursue my passion for art.

She bought me my first set of paints. My first real paintbrushes. She paid for my first art lessons and hung my first real painting—a bright orange sun shining over a purple lake surrounded by yellow flowers—in the center of her living room like it was a priceless piece of art. Like it was special.

I stand back and look at the muddled gray colors in front of me. I frown. It’s not quite what I want to see. It looks… wrong, somehow.

My eyes skip to my bedroom window, drawn by a flash of movement outside. I see Levi running up and down the stone steps behind the lavender field. He does this almost every day.

Today it’s cloudy outside and the sky is darker than usual, which means a storm is coming. My heart starts to race.

I watch Levi scale the steps again. His hair is all mussed up like he’s been shoving his hands in it, and he’s wearing a pair of gym shorts and his worn-out ASU T-shirt. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve seen him in that shirt, running laps or bleachers. His dad, Mark, gave it to him for his sixteenth birthday, and I swear Levi wore it every day for two weeks after that. He was so determined to play football for ASU. He was always so dedicated and driven, so focused. He was a teenage boy with big dreams and few problems.

I wonder who he is now. Who’s that guy running up and down those old stone steps?

I used to know him. I don’t anymore.

Sharp sadness sinks into me, cold and dark, and I suddenly want to run outside and throw my arms around him. I want to bury my face in his chest and cry into his college T-shirt like a lost little girl.

I pull my eyes away from the window and look back at my gray painting.

I put my paintbrush away. It no longer looks wrong.

My feet beat against the stone steps in a constant rhythm as I ascend the steep incline yet again. The sky is heavy with clouds and the air is thick as I suck it into my lungs with each labored breath.

Pixie has a boyfriend and I have no problem with that.

Don’t get me wrong, I hate the guy. But I have no problem with Pixie dating someone. It’s good for her. Healthy. At least she’s getting on with her life, which is more than I can say for myself.

At the top of the steps, I bend over to catch my breath and take a deep swig of water.

And the condom thing, well, that’s just good planning. I’m not at all unsettled by the thought of Pixie having sex with Matt the Boyfriend—or any other guy, for that matter.

My knuckles go white around the bottle.

Not unsettled at all.

Loosening my grip, I take a few deep breaths and look out over the area. The lavender field leads down into an old amphitheater of sorts, complete with old stone benches curved into bowl-shaped stadium seating and crumbling staircases running up and down each side.

At one time, this place was probably used for small concerts or shows, but now it’s mostly just rubble overgrown with dandelions and rogue sprouts of lavender. Guests sometimes come out here to take pictures or sit and read. It has that kind of feel to it. Quiet. Peaceful. I feel neither as I catch my breath.

With my muscles worked to their morning limit and sweat dripping down my face, I step away from the forgotten theater and climb up to the field.

The storm smell on the wind rolls over me, reminding me of a day last summer when I thought I had everything. A family. A future. Maybe even love. Funny how quickly you can lose the things you thought were certain.

Back inside, I take a shower and do my best to deplete the warm water. The first time I used all the hot water was an accident. It was two days after Pixie had moved in—two very uncomfortable days of tension and sadness—and I had exhausted the early morning repainting the inn’s front porch. My hands and arms were covered in white paint, so I spent an excessive amount of time trying to scrub my skin clean as I showered.

I didn’t realize I’d used all the hot water until twenty minutes after my shower when I heard Pixie squeal in the bathroom, then stomp into the hallway. She knocked on my door and proceeded to lecture me on the polite usage of a shared bathroom.

At first, I felt really bad about hogging the water, but then I realized her scolding was the longest conversation we’d had in months, and it took away some of the darkness inside me. Plus, I liked the way her cheeks crested with pink as she pointed at me and how her eyes narrowed when she thought I wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. From that day on, I went out of my way to ensure Pixie didn’t get hot showers. Not very mature, but it was either that or drown in silence.

I finish with my post-jog shower and step out of the bathroom to an empty hallway. No Pixie tapping her foot outside the door with a scowl. No pink-crested cheeks. Disappointment starts to slide over my skin.

“Forty-two minutes!” Pixie yells from her cracked-open bedroom door.

Sometimes she times me. It’s adorable.

“You’re an asshole, Levi,” she adds.

I grin as I walk to my room, all disappointment gone.

That night, I enter the bathroom a second before Pixie does, both of us with our toothbrushes at the ready. For a moment I just stare at her.

She looks the way I remember—blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot with curls escaping, paint smudged on her skin and bare feet—and I’m instantly transported back to a time when my house was filled with girly laughter.