“Really?”
“Yeah. But I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t tried again.”
Nelle finishes her coffee while chitchatting with Jessie and her friends. Meg is the redhead, Luke the blond, and Denise is the pixie-cut diva with neon-green makeup and black lips to match her hair.
Nelle brews another cup and pads back into the studio to stare at the canvas—that unforgiving white. It mocks her. Haunts her. Inhaling, she pulls up a stool and lifts a thin paintbrush.
Quill’s house burning.
Riding, windows down, on the highway.
Sending paper wishes across a hotel bathroom.
Dancing through puddles on a rooftop.
Jo March picking up her pen again in chapter forty-two.
The horses through her window.
The city night twinkles in through floor-to-ceiling glass.I remember.
An artist with a vision, Nelle dips the brush into her coffee cup.
When she emerges from her frenzy, Nelle first sees the sun over Williamsburg. She steps back, flexing her fingers, to observe what she created. A watercolor done with coffee, the overlapping shades of brown burnished gold by dawn.
It’s a palomino with wings, soaring above a sea of skyscrapers.
“Wow,” breathes a voice behind her.
Nelle jumps and whirls. A gorgeous stranger looms over her, transfixed by her painting. She smells like apricots, sweat, and weed. Black hair curls over the nape of her neck.
“This is incredible,” she says. “You painted this with coffee?”
Nelle glances at her work—far from the best she has done—then back at the woman.
“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry if it was your brush I used. I’m not sure—”
“Don’t stress over it.” The woman laughs. “You must be new to Jessie’s little clubhouse. I’m not an artist. I’m Lena. Jessie and I are in the same internship.”
Nelle peers over Lena’s shoulder, but the rest of the studio is empty. Sculptures and sketches have been shuffled around, but she had been too absorbed by her painting to notice anyone else through the night.
“Jessie’s in the kitchen making breakfast.” Lena reads her searching expression. “Well, she’s moving it from to-go containers to paper plates.”
Jessie emerges from the kitchen holding a tray stacked with bacon, eggs, and pancakes.
“We are celebrating today, my beauties!” She places the tray on the coffee table with a flourish. “Nelle, I—no joke—shit my pants when I saw your piece. It’s my favorite of the year. I shouldn’t have doubted you. James knows not to date a bad artist.”
“We’re not dating.” Nelle sits on a pillow at the coffee table. “And at what point during your motivational speech last night did you doubt me?”
Jessie forces down a half-chewed bite of egg. “You’re not dating?”
“No,” Nelle says.
“Have you fucked?” asks Lena.
“No,” Nelle repeats. Her cheeks go hot. “Anyway, what are we celebrating?”
“Your rediscovered artistry,” Jessie says through a mouthful of bacon. “After this, we’re going out for bottomless mimosas.”
