“The gym guy?” But I knew exactly who she’d meant. There had always been something easy and natural—electric even—between them. We’d stayed with him last year, but I wanted to push Mom just a little.
“The gym guy,” she echoed, and her voice went light in a way I hadn’t heard in months. “He was more than that, Mila. A friend. A temptation I couldn’t afford.”
“Because of where he lives,” I guessed.
She nodded. “Too close to where I came from. I couldn’t stay there. But…” Her shoulders rose then fell. “Who knows where life will go once you’re at college.”
Her voice lingered with something wistful.
We ate the bagels she’d packed, legs stretched across the blanket, crumbs carried off by gulls bold enough to circle close until we shooed them. After, we walked the shoreline, the surf rushing in to nip at our ankles before pulling back, daring us to chase it. Our laughter rose with the tide, and for a while, it felt as if the weight I carried had been left somewhere far behind, buried under textbooks and committee agendas.
The beach wasn’t empty—there were families with toddlers building crooked sandcastles, a couple of surfers paddling out, office workers who’d escaped for an hour of sun. Not crowded but not ours alone either. By the time noon hit, more people drifted down from the boardwalk, unwrapping sandwiches, soaking up light while they could. The hum of their voices folded into the crash of the waves, a rhythm steady enough to make the whole place feel alive.
We lingered until the shadows stretched long and the sun mellowed into gold. The tide foamed across our feet as we cut back toward the boardwalk, and that was when I spotted Colleen, the woman in charge of the boardwalk art studio.
She stood outside the studio, paint on her sleeve, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear. She ended the call fast when she saw me.
“Mila.”
I jogged across the sand. “Hey.”
Her smile was warm but tight. “I’m glad I caught you. Our lease isn’t being renewed, which means we’ve got two weeks to clear everything out. I’ve been trying to reach everyone, but since you’re here?—”
It hit like ice water down my spine. “What?”
She nodded toward the building. “Come inside. You’ll want your supplies. Your work.”
My mom and I followed her in.
The familiar smell of turpentine and old wood hit me first. Sunlight spilled through the tall front windows, catching on glass jars and half-finished canvases.
My pieces were stacked against the back wall. Oils. Colors I’d fought for.
My mom froze. I watched her eyes move over the pieces—portraits, beach landscapes, scraps of memory turned paint. Shock flickered there. “You never showed me these,” she whispered.
I worried my lower lip. “At home, it’s just sketches.”
She stepped closer, fingers hovering near the edge of a canvas without touching. “Mila… this is talent. This is more than a hobby.”
Colleen overheard, drifting closer with a smile. “She’s right. You’ve developed something real. You should submit. I know a gallery owner who would love to take a serious look. I’ll make a call before you reach out. Smooth the way.”
I couldn’t breathe. The floor tilted beneath me.
My mom looked at me, fierce pride hidden under her usual armor. I wanted to believe. I wanted it so badly it hurt.
We loaded the car with everything—brushes, paints, canvases balanced in the back seat. I hugged Colleen, promised her I’d stay in touch. She brushed it off with a grin, saying she’d be fine, that she usually landed on her feet.
But the hollowness in my chest didn’t ease. The studio had been my sanctuary. And now it was gone.
I planned to ask Luke what the hell had happened. Then I sat back, sketchbook balanced on my knees, pencil loose between my fingers, the pages crowded with lines that always led back to him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUKE
Restlessness crawled under my skin, coiled tight, begging for release. Not the locker room noise, not the sweat and tape and pulsing music—those were static. What mattered was the ice. Me and the puck and whoever thought they could take it from me. I wanted the weight of contact, the grind of blades cutting deep, the sharp snap of the shot leaving my stick. Winning wasn’t a hope. It was an expectation.
Plastic blade guards thudded against the rubber floor, the sound swallowed by the rip of tape players wound around their sticks. Sweat and muscle rub hung in the air, trapped in the concrete walls. Someone’s speaker bled bass, fighting the rest of the noise.
