“Sloane,” Catherine said, her voice sounding taut and exasperated.
Sloane pressed the phone to her ear and waited a couple beats, almost too nervous to reply. “I wasn’t sure you’d answer.”
Through the speaker, Sloane could hear papers rustling and a drawer closing. When Catherine spoke, her voice was laced with irritation. “I’m at work. I’m always here at this time.”
“I know,” Sloane whispered. “I just hoped maybe today might be different.”
“What do you want, Sloane?”
“Are we doing this again?” Sloane asked softly, unable to stop the hurt breaking through clearly now. “Silence until I forget how good it felt to be with you?”
Catherine drew in a sharp breath. “I’m just busy.”
“Busy,” Sloane echoed bitterly, a faint tremor underlying her voice. “That’s your favorite excuse. But we both know that’s not the real reason.”
Catherine went so quiet that Sloane thought maybe she’d hung up, but eventually she replied. “This isn’t a good time.”
“It never is,” Sloane whispered, a note of resignation creeping into her voice. “It wasn’t about timing, Catherine. It never was. It’s about you pushing me away whenever it gets too real. Too close.”
“It’s…it’s complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated,” Sloane retorted gently, her voice cracking slightly. “But it shouldn’t be this hard, not every time.”
“Maybe we’re just too different, Sloane.”
A beat of silence stretched painfully, punctuated by Sloane’s uneven breath. “We’re only different because you refuse to let yourself feel anything.”
“That’s unfair,” Catherine snapped, emotion slipping through her carefully controlled tone. “You don’t know?—”
“Don’t I?” Sloane interrupted, her voice heavy with sadness. “Because I’ve tried. God, Catherine, I’ve tried. I’ve stood here with my heart wide open, and every single time you shut down and walk away.”
“I—”
“You’re scared,” Sloane pressed, her voice shaking slightly now. “Again.”
Catherine paused, and Sloane imagined what she could possibly be doing at her desk.
“Sloane, please,” she squeaked out, barely audible. “I can’t do this right now.”
“You mean you won’t,” Sloane corrected, her voice raw but firm. “And maybe you never will.”
The silence that followed hung heavily between them, and Sloane felt like the chasm that Catherine had opened was now impossible to cross.
“I have to go,” Catherine whispered finally, and it sounded like she was biting back bitter tears.
Sloane sighed. “You always do.”
Sloane didn’t let Catherine worm her way into her mind, twisting the situation to elicit empathy—she was done being patient for someone who was never coming around—and she clicked to end the call without saying goodbye.
In the dim solitude of her studio, Sloane stared at her phone, her chest aching as if someone had physically struck her. She dropped the phone onto the table, its screen dark and empty once more. She stepped back, feeling the weight of Catherine’s silence settle heavily over her.
“I’m done,” she murmured quietly, almost as if she needed to convince herself. “I can’t keep doing this.”
But even as she said the words aloud, her heart fought back, aching stubbornly and unwilling to let go. Sloane pressed a hand to her chest, breathing shakily through the sting of hurt, frustration, and stubborn love.
She turned back to her canvas, staring at the chaotic swirl of colors she’d abandoned earlier. Without thinking, she picked up her brush again, dipping it harshly into deep crimson. With steady movements, she painted over her hesitation and doubts, covering the hurt with bold, unapologetic strokes.
Sloane’s vision blurred, her throat thick with tears she refused to shed. But her hand moved steadily, determinedly, until the canvas before her was an unyielding explosion of red.
