“Those are bold choices,” I note. “You need a transition color or risk getting a muddy mess jumping from blue to black without a bridge.” I pick out a soft cerulean and a gray with blue undertones. “Use these. They will give you somewhere to go between the dark and the light.”
He takes them, his fingers brushing mine with a spark of static. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I know what I like.” I turn back to my canvas, sketching mentally what I would like to paint. “Whether I can execute it’s another story.”
Celeste begins the class by discussing instinct over technique, urging us to let the paint lead rather than forcing it into a shape. Forty minutes into the session, I’ve stopped thinking. The brush moves on its own, layering warm tones over cool ones. It isn't pretty or planned, but it is the first honest thing I’ve created in years.
Kai’s canvas is different. It is precise and geometric; every stroke is measured with the accuracy of a machine. Celeste pauses behind him, telling him he’s strangling the life out of the paint.
He exhales through his teeth. “It doesn't do what I want.”
“The paint isn't your enemy. Stop treating it like one.”
After she moves on, he stares at his canvas as if it had personally offended him.
“I don’t know how to turn it off,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair and leaving a smear of blue paint at his temple. “The need for control.”
I add another sweep of orange and focus on the movement of my brush. “Maybe that’s why you’re here,” I whisper.
“And what are you learning?”
The question catches me off guard. I look at the warm colors bleeding into each other, messy and bright.
“That I missed this,” I say quietly. “More than I realized.”
When Celeste calls time, my canvas is a chaotic, warm mess, while Kai’s looks like a fight that is still ongoing. Celeste stops at my easel and studies it for a long, silent minute.
“You have instincts,” she says. “Real ones. If you ever want to develop them, I teach advanced classes on Saturdays. Don’t think. Just show up.”
My face burns with pride. “Thank you. I will think about it.”
“Don’t think,” Kai repeats after she moves on, watching me with an expression I can’t categorize. “It means you have potential. She didn't say that to me.”
I busy myself cleaning the brushes so I don’t have to meet his gaze, but my phone buzzes in my bag. Then it buzzes again. And again. I wipe my hands on a rag and dig it out. The screen shows four messages from an unknown number, and my mouth goes dry. I already know what I will find.
Unknown: I know you're ignoring me.
Unknown: We need to talk, Em.
Unknown: You can't just fucking disappear.
Unknown: I'll find you and you’ll be sorry.
The room tilts. My hands go ice-cold, and I feel a wave of nausea. He has a new number; he always finds a way. I try to shove the phone back into my bag, but my hands are shaking too hard, the zipper refusing to move.
“Emma?”
Kai's voice comes from very far away.
“Emma. What's wrong?”
Kai gently takes the phone from my hands and reads the messages. He goes still. The man looking at my phone is not the man who was painting beside me five minutes ago.
“Your ex?” He places a hand on my back, the warmth of his palm the only thing anchoring me to this room. I nod and cover my face with both hands. He must think I'm a drama queen.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Almost a year,” I force a laugh that comes out like a sob. “He gets a new number every time I block him. He’s just… used to things going his way.”
