Somehow, her simile is insanely accurate. Whenever I lay eyes on Douglass, my chest hurts, my heart pounds, and it feels like a fire is trying to burn its way out of my skin.
“She’s Amelia’s sister.”
There. I ripped the Band Aid off as quickly as I could. Daniella’s entire face drops in surprise. She blinks. Opens her mouth. Blinks again.
“Are you out of your goddamned mind?!”
“You already yelled that at me.”
“Jordan. It’s not funny. Why would you want to get mixed up with that woman and any of her family again, let alone hersister?”
This is where I spill my guts all over my friend. The one person other than Harper and Mike who I trust with my secrets. I tell Daniella everything. About Douglass. About what Mike said happened that night. About Natalie. About Chase and Amelia breaking up, and Chase running into Douglass. About how seeing Douglass, being around her, makes me feel more alive than I have in a very long time even though she acts like she hates my guts.
“That doesn’t sound like she hates you.”
I don’t look up from where I buried my face in my hands. “Yeah, she really does. But I’m working on it.”
Lacquered fingernailstappity-tapthe desktop. “Word of advice. Tread carefully. You’ve worked too hard to stay sober. Don’t get sucked back into the drama that is Amelia and Chase. Make sure Douglass is worth it.”
She is. She’s more than worth it. I just hope she thinks I’m worth it as well if I can just get her to see past my drunken mistakes. Mistakes I can’t fucking remember making.
Sitting up, I open the file folder she threw on the desk. It’s the stuff from Aurora I asked her to print out. A new community project Aurora is planning that I’m interested in getting involved with. I’ll look through it more carefully when I get back home. First, there’s a man I need to see and threats I need to issue.
Standing up, I round the desk and pull Daniella in for a hug. She may be my house manager, but right now, she’s my friend and deserves a hug after I dumped all my shit on her.
“Thanks for letting me word vomit all over you.”
She tucks a lock of her short blonde bob behind her ear, and grins up at me. “Anytime. You know that. I care about you and don’t want to see you hurt again.”
I do know that. She and I have a friendship forged from a foundation of a shared addiction. If anyone gets me and my demons, it’s her.
“Text me if anything comes up. I’ll be back by this afternoon if you want to drive together to AA.”
“Will do.” Bending over, she picks up the bottle of Jack. “I’m pouring this down the kitchen drain.”
Chapter 22
Living so close to the city of Houston, one would think I’d have visited once or twice in my lifetime. Nope. Today is the first I’ve traveled into the fourth most populous city in the United States. Navigating the network of roads, feeders, overpasses, and traffic—holy shit, the traffic congestion is just plain scary—is something I don’t care to repeat.
I stayed in a panic attack the entire car ride here, screaming at other drivers to please stop tailgating the very expensive car I was in that didn’t belong to me. I would never be able to pay for the repairs if it got damaged.
Traffic didn’t improve much once I got to the Uptown district where Harper’s art gallery was located adjacent to the Galleria, a huge shopping complex that looked like a small city unto itself. Everything was polished chrome, glass, and concrete as far as the eye could see, which made entering Harper’s art boutique an eye-catching experience.
Getting out of the car, I fumble with remembering how to lock the damn thing. I’m already sweating under the midday Texas sun, not having acclimated yet from the North Carolina climate I’m used to. Upon opening the ten-foot glass door of If Walls Could Talk, Harper’s gallery, I’m greeted with the distilled smell of oil paints and the bold slashes of colorful artwork from local artists that tastefully adorn the walls. Unique and interesting sculptures sit atop tall pedestals illuminated by soft, recessed uplights. The soles of my Chucks glide silently over the dark wood floor, and I stop to appreciate a free-standing wall of art that looks like an optical illusion where the paintings are suspended in mid-air between archways of glass. Behind it is the reception desk where Harper’sGirl in a Thunderstormhangs overhead.
“Oh, hey! I didn’t see you come in,” Harper says, coming over to give me a hug, then notices the painting I’ve been staring at.
“That’s one of my favorites.”
The various colors of vibrant scarlet and burnt reds are what caught my eye. The painting is what I think is called minimalist, but I’m not sure. The canvas is filled with streaks of varying shades of red, but there’s something about it that immediately drew me in as soon as I saw it. It’s like looking at a painting that’s in pain. The emotion it elicits is visceral.
“One of yours?” I ask.
Harper tilts her head and taps a finger to the side of her mouth. “No. The artist is an ex-Navy SEAL who lost both his legs in combat. The story behind the painting is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. Jacob, the artist,” she clarifies, “said he painted it during one of the lowest moments of his life when he contemplated suicide.”
I jolt as if someone punched me in the stomach, and I don’t hear the rest of what she says. No wonder the simplistic painting called to me. We share the same pain and desolation. The same desperation to want that pain to stop.
“Earth to Douglass.”
