Despite his harsh outburst, Liam was right. My commissioned canvas was still blank in the corner of the living room. I had accepted Senator Langford’s proposal and the hefty price tag that came with it, but I had tried to start every day since then…and I just couldn’t.
Luna Margulies was my idol. The subject of the critical paper I never finished in grad school. I built my entire final semester around her. I wrote about her, painted like her, tried to channel her. When I saw she had an exhibit at the de Young, I thought her work could unlock whatever had me frozen.
I clear my throat and gesture toward the oversized canvas before us.
“Her work is known for its visceral emotion and bold use of negative space,” I say, sounding exactly like the paper I once tried to write. Liv nods, looking between me and the massive piece of art, like I make any damn sense. I don’t even believe what I’m saying.
The truth is, I already tried this in grad school. I used to stare at her work for hours, trying to decode it—thinking if I could just crack the formula, I’d unlock something in myself.
But I couldn’t. So I quit.
“The art is supposed to make you feel…” I trail off, staring at the individual brush strokes like I’m waiting for the feeling to find me. But it doesn’t. And maybe that’s the problem. This art doesn’t make me feel…anything.
My thoughts drift to Liam. About the way he methodically works through his training routine every morning, keeping his body in peak condition for the game he loves. I think about the way he rattled off stats for every Cubs player since 1987 over three nights at Bar None—not like some cliché sports bro, but like a true student of the game, dissecting the numbers, explaining the strategy, the probabilities behind each play. I remember one time in college when he came home with Cal for Thanksgiving and spent hours on the couch, rewinding the same clip of his swing over and over, analyzing the position of his elbows, his hips, his weight transfer. That spring, he broke the conference record for consecutive hits.
He loved baseball. He still loves it.
I art-docent my way through the rest of the exhibit, explaining the cliché color theory and emotional contrast to Liv and Andy, who nod solemnly and even gasp at all the appropriate moments.
Being here was supposed to remind me of what I wanted to do with my life. I thought that maybe since I’d startedpainting again, I just needed a little more inspiration. But standing here, I feel nothing. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this world.
Liam’s eyes light up when he talks about baseball, even after being cut. I don’t feel that way about any of this anymore.
I don’t know if I ever really did.
Chapter 21
Liam
When I hear the keypad beep, I’m on my feet before I even think about it. “Soph,” I say, crossing the room as she walks in. My eyes lock onto hers, and I can only hope she sees the regret all over my face. “I’m so sorry about what I said this morning.”
“I know,” she says quietly, setting down her bag.
I reach for her, then hesitate, my hand hovering before I drag it through my hair instead. I’ve been replaying our fight all afternoon, and I know I owe her the truth.
“I lashed out because I’m scared of being a washed-up nobody,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “But I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. You have this incredible opportunity with your commission, and I believe in you.”
Sophie takes a breath, and I brace for her to tell me off. Instead, she says, “I was wrong to push you. The community center thing is your choice, but don’t pretend you don’t still love baseball.”
I try to interject, but she holds up a hand. “And you weren’t wrong about that blank canvas—I do need to do some serious thinking about how to move forward.”
She closes the space between us, and I want to pull her the rest of the way to me.
“I know this is casual,” she swallows, “but we both care about each other’s futures. Maybe it’s time we admit that.” She reaches up and presses a kiss to my cheek, and something in my chest tightens. “Thank you for being honest with me. You’re a good friend.”
And for the first time in my life, a woman is saying that to me when I want more.
I want to scoop her into my arms and carry her to the bedroom, to the actual bed—no more of this countertop or yoga mat nonsense. I want to wrap my body around hers, and I want to wake up with hers wrapped around mine.
And more than that, I want to talk about my insecurities and hopes for the future. I want to help her work through whatever’s going on with her art. I want to know if she thinks about me when I’m not around, the way I’ve started thinking about her.
Because this doesn’t feel like just friends who happen to care about each other’s futures. At least, not on my end. Not anymore.
“Did you make fajitas?” she asks, breaking my train of thought.
“Yeah,” I reply with a small laugh. “Yeah, I did. I’ll make you a plate.”
We sit side by side on the couch, eating our dinner. I think she’s going to retreat to Cal’s room when we finish, but she suggests we watch a movie instead. She grabs a blanket and tucks herself into my side. I wrap my arm around her and wonder if she can feel my heart beating in my chest. But she lets out a contented sigh and snuggles in.
