She’d ripped my painting out of my hand and crumpled it into a ball before I’d known what was happening. And then there was pain. A flash of hot, sharp pain across my cheek. It took me way too long to realize she’d smacked me with the back of her hand.
“Look at this mess!” she’d screeched. “Look at the fuckingmess you’ve made!”
At some point, the cup of water with my brushes in it had gotten tipped over. Green-grey water was spreading through the pile of papers and old food wrappers and clothes on the counter, dripping down onto the grimy floor.
Then she’d snatched up my paints and thrown them toward the overflowing trash.
“Do something real with your time,” she’d screamed, grabbing me by the shoulders so that her nails dug through my shirt. Shaking me hard enough that my back hit the counter. “Don’t fucking waste your time on that shit. You want to end up like me? Is that what you fucking want?”
I didn’t. That was the last thing I wanted. And I fucking hated it. Because even to me, it didn’t feel like all that long ago that it had been all I’d wanted.
If painting was gonna make me end up like her, I wouldn’t do it.
When I’d showed up at Mindy and Neal’s house though? There’d been a little paint set mixed in with all the other kids’ stuff they’d set up for me. And could I stay away from it? Nope.
So I just painted when no one was around. Didn’t show anyone what I’d done, ‘cause I probably shouldn’t have been doing it anyway.
Not like I actually believed, even then, that art was what fucked things up for my mom. Not the actual painting at least, just maybe the idea that painting was something real. Something that wasn’t just fucking around for the hell of it.
It really all was just a waste of time.
“Hello? Tristan?”
Reagan waves my phone under my nose again.
Thank fuck it’shervoice and she hasn’t already gone anddialed Mitchel’s number or something.
It’s not like I still think that trying to sell my paintings is gonna turn me into a methed-out drunk. I’m not seven anymore.
But what I do just isn’t good enough for anyone to actually buy. It’s just me fucking around. Wasting time.
“I’ll think about it.” I give Reagan a smile that I hope doesn’t look too fake. She’s a sweetheart, and I don’t want to make her feel shitty for trying to give me a compliment.
And by the way, all that reading I did online about confronting shit from your childhood or whatever else is fucking you up? Fuck. That. Shit.
This latest little trip down good ole memory lane? All it’s done is give me the fuckingworstheadache, and instead of a stomach full of butterflies, now I just feel like plain old puking.
I’m tucking my phone back in my pocket when it vibrates again.
Exactly how bad is it that just that alone is enough to cut through my nauseous headache? That, in the last week and a half, I’ve somehow gone from the guy who doesn’t want anything to do with anything more than a one-night stand to holding my goddamn breath every time a text comes in, hoping thatthis time, sunshine’s gonna tell me he wants to see me sooner than Monday?
There’s just no fucking way that I’m telling him I don’t know how I’m going to make it through ‘til then without getting a taste of those sweet, soft lips of his. And hereallydoesn’t need to know that, since those two nights I spent in his bed, I’ve slept even worse than I usually do, without his warm, just-a-teeny-bit-squishy body to use as my very own personal pillow.
For one, I still don’t even know howIfeel about all that shit.Last thing I need to do while I’m trying to work that out is go around broadcasting it to the guy who’s gone and turned every last thing I thought I knew about myself upside down.
Two, and totally more important, he said he needs to take things slow. Yeah, so I’d kinda thought he just meant we couldn’t jump straight to the part where I get to peel him out of his ugly-ass sweater and lick every last inch of his delicious body.
Seems like he actually meant more than just that though, considering how he hasn’t said a word about wanting to see me since I left his place Wednesday night. I guess he needs a bit of distance too.
So that’s fine.Obviously.
Since it looks like Reagan’s apparently lost interest in harassing me about calling Mitchel,thank fuck, and turned all her attention to her Kindle, I can finally read Jesse’s text. ‘Cause, you know, having to wait a whole thirty seconds? End of the fucking world apparently.
Rolling my eyes at myself—yeah, that’s a thing, okay?—I swipe open my phone, goofy-ass grin in place, and pull up my messages.
28
Tristan
