“I appreciate all your time.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. Was I seriously giving up this opportunity for a guy?
This could cost me everything: my nana’s house, her memories…
And yet…
“Knox?”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, turning away and striding for the door. “Good luck with everything here. It’s incredible, and I’m sure it will be an amazing opportunity for someone else.”
“Wait–”
But the door closed behind me, and I was rushing down the street.
Duke’s car wasn’t back yet, and I couldn’t wait for him. If I ran, I could reach Lucy’s door in fifteen minutes. It wouldn’t have even been faster by car, given the traffic.
“I’m coming, Lucy,” I murmured a promise.
For once, I didn’t even regret my choice to leave the job behind.
24
LUCY
My face itched as tears continued to leak from my eyes. It felt like I’d been crying since last night, but I still had more tears each time I felt the telltale signs of a trembling lip and my throat trying to close.
I was surrounded by splinters. Dad had destroyed every paintbrush, every canvas, every crate and paint palette I owned. My easel was torn apart at every joint, and the boxes of paints were shattered, having been thrown against the furniture, which also bore the damage of my father’s anger.
He hadn’t hurt me—he would never—but with every tube of paint that had been squeezed dry, every paintbrush with bristles torn out of the end, my favorite paint cup shattered against the lamp whose glass now littered the floor around me and pierced my thighs where I sat, it was like my soul had been torn from my body.
Losing Knox last night had been hard enough. In dramatic artist fashion, it felt like I’d torn my heart from my own chest and squeezed it until it stopped beating. I’d sent him away, hurt his feelings, hit him with words I knew would drive him away.
I couldn’t regret it, because he was better off without my mess. He would find a job that he loved, find someone who could support his dreams and give him a family he doesn’t hate, and he would forget about me.
He would find happiness and success, and where would I be?
I would be right here, in the midst of the shards of what was left of me, and I would just continue to mechanically do what my family expected of me. I would learn Dad’s trade, no matter how much I hated it, and maybe someday he would look at me with pride. Like I was a good son. Like he didn’t regret having me in the first place.
I released another sob, and felt more tears overflow over my cheeks.
“I can’t.”
My voice was broken and almost unrecognizable, even for me.
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be the good son. I couldn’t stay away from paint forever, from even a pencil to sketch the shapes that I saw in my mind’s eye. I could never match what Cordelia was to Dad.
So why bother?
I didn’t know if I could survive outside of our family, away from the money that had always flowed, no matter what, but I couldn’t stay here either.
I had money in my savings from working here and there throughout the years, even getting paid for some of my old art, so I had something to work with if I had to start on my own. But it wasn’t enough for even six months of paying rent, food, and any other bills my dad cut me off from when I came up missing.
He’d be so angry with me.
I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw my own disownment in the newspaper.
I didn’t have the money to replace my art supplies, either. I’d have to find a job somewhere to get by longer.
It would be turning my entire life upside down.
