Remembering how he touched me makes my clit throb. Closing my eyes, I reach a hand under my sleep shorts and panties, pretending it’s Alex’s. I touch myself the same way he did, slowly teasing before finally entering. I pick up the pace, in and out at a fast, steady rhythm until I feel myself about to come. Rubbing my clit, building the pressure just right, I allow myself to come undone. My release is satisfactory, nothing like what it could’ve been under Alex’s touch, but enough to unleash what’s been building up inside of me since last night.
It’s not the first time I’ve made myself come while thinking of him, but after last night, I thought I would never be able to get past the anger and rage I felt towards him. He broke through the walls I had built for the past decade, and then denied me while I was already in such a vulnerable position. It felt like a slap to the face in the moment.
But Dallas is right—itwaskind of hot. And probably not something I ever would’ve allowed to happen with anyone else. I know Alex wouldn’t do anything to intentionally hurt me, no matter how angry he makes me. He’s just an idiot sometimes.
I shove the covers off and take a quick shower to freshen up for the day, sliding into my painting overalls. The denim is broken in from years of wear and covered in dried paint, smears and splatters in every paint color imaginable. Setting up the art studio should shut up my brain for a while. There’s somethingabout the smell of paint and the scrape of a brush against canvas always clears my mind. God knows I could use the clarity if I’m all of a sudden thinking about how badly I want to fuck Alex instead of staying as far away from him as I know I should.
I drag several, unexpectedly heavy cardboard boxes labeled “studio” across the house and into the back room. It could use a deep cleaning, but has good natural light. Ignoring the cobwebs and dusty furniture, I start unpacking. Snapping several wooden pieces together, I assemble an easel and slide it in front of the big, singular window in the middle of the room.
Opening another box, the supplies inside unearth the familiar smell of my studio back in Manhattan and a particular sadness builds up in my chest. I try to block out the emotion before it has a chance to interfere with my plans. Too impatient to organize properly, I pull out the first stretched canvas I see and place it on the easel. I dump a plastic container full of various paint tubes on the floor around me, making a mental note to find a better place to organize them later. Desperate to start painting, I frantically search for any brush in the several boxes remaining. Of course, they are at the bottom of the very last box I check. I don’t have any idea what I want to paint yet, let alone a color palette, so I decide to start uncapping random paint colors and pour them onto an old palette, hoping for the best.
The first dip of mahogany paint onto the brush feels cathartic. I haven’t painted anything since the heart failure diagnosis three months ago. I usually use painting as a way to escape reality and create something beautiful in the midst of darkness, but ever since then, the thought of painting anything has brought on a sadness I can’t explain. I create for myself, of course, but also for those that love my work. If I create something new now, the chances of anyone seeing it after I’m dead are slim to none. So why would I even bother?
In this moment, I try to push those thoughts aside and paint merely for the escape.
Ineedthe escape.
I brush the paint on the canvas and try to forget about what life will be like after I’m gone. Or if people will even rememberme, let alone my art.
15
EMMA
It’s been a week since the festival, since the last time I saw Alex and watched him walk out my front door, telling myself I was done thinking about him.
I have not, in fact, stopped thinking about him.
Which is why I’ve thrown myself into painting again. The studio, if you can even call it that, is finally set up. The second I had picked up that paintbrush, something inside me settled. I’d missed it. The bristles gliding across the canvas, the colors blending together in a way that’s somehow both chaotic and intentional. It’s the only time my brain goes quiet lately. No overthinking, no spiraling—just me, the paint, and whatever mess I’m trying to untangle in my head.
When I’m not painting, I’m with Liv and Sophia, occupying the time with coffee-fueled gossip and impromptu shifts at the bakery. Sophia swears I’m helpful, but I’m pretty sure I only get in her way as I run to sample every pastry as soon as it comes out of the oven. She never complains about it though, at least not to my face.
Even with the distraction, I can feel it, the slow decline. Thecreeping exhaustion that clings to me, making even the smallest tasks feel monumental. Walking up stairs, carrying groceries, standing too long—it all leaves me breathless. I’ve been pretending it’s nothing and that I’m probably just tired, adjusting, or being dramatic.
But if I’m being honest, I know that I’m not.
I don’t say anything about it though, not to Liv or Sophia, or any of my brothers. But Cam notices, of course. Which is how I end up in the passenger seat of his car, staring out the window as we drive to my cardiologist appointment.
I hate these appointments. I hate the sterile walls, the smell of antiseptic, and the too-cheerful receptionist who’s more annoying than she is comforting. The check up is routine, but heavy. Tests, scans, and a long talk with Dr. Rivera that leaves me feeling like the air has been sucked from the room.
Things aren’t looking good for me.
My heart is getting weaker. The ICD and medications are no longer working as well as we hoped they would. I listen to everything being said, nodding in all the right times, but I can’t stop fidgeting with the rings on my fingers—an anxious habit that has gotten worse with every passing year. Cam is quiet as he stands beside me, listening to every word and asking questions that I don’t even bother thinking about. His hand on my shoulder feels like the only thing keeping me from floating away.
As we walk out of the building, Cam sneaks glances at me every few seconds as if I might fall apart at any moment. Maybe I will at some point, but not yet. Right now I feel hollow, like someone scooped out my insides and left nothing but a shell behind.
“Can we go to the bookstore?” I ask as we reach the car.
Cam blinks. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious. No pun intended.” A sarcastic smirk displays across my face.
He sighs, but doesn’t laugh or try to argue. We pull out of the parking lot and drive the short distance into town, toPaper Trails.
The second I step inside the bookstore, the scent of old pages and leather bindings wrap around me. It feels comforting and intimate. The store hasn’t changed much, if even at all. Walking by here the other day didn’t prepare me for the gut punch of actually being inside. A tidal wave of memories flow back.
Me, trailing my fingers along the spines of books, trying to pick the perfect one.
Alex, rolling his eyes but still standing beside me, waiting. He was always waiting, always patient. He didn’t care about the books, but he cared aboutme.
