“In that case, I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
That it was soul-crushing for him to be doing this. That he needed to get over his problems and let people into his studio again so he could draw them. That he needed a new therapist. All the things Dad would tell him.
He must have paused for too long, because Everett pulled his phone so close to his nose that Micah could practically see up into his brain. “Are you low on money?”
“What? No, no. I’m... fine.”
“You sure? You have money for food? For prescriptions?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you still getting commission profit from that gallery you’re in?”
“I’m not in a gallery anymore. I missed a couple of networking receptions, and they dropped me.” He’d also missed the yearly art fair and had turned down the chance for a group exhibit, the lure of staying in bed much more tempting.
“What the hell? Don’t they know what you’ve been through? Let me wire you some money. I have to get some emails sent, but after–”
“You don’t need to do that. I’m getting this commission done and have others lined up.” He didn’t, and skinning his own hands with a potato peeler sounded more appealing than painting another landscape, but he wasn’t going to take Everett’s money. His emergency credit card would just have to do more heavy lifting.
Micah dropped his arm to his side and turned in a circle. “I’m managing, but I feel like I’m stuck in limbo. I haven’t made any progress on getting my life back on track–”
“It’s been, what, nine months? You’re not lying in bed twenty-four/seven, unwashed and barely present. You’re making art again. Your studio looks clean. That’s progress.”
He wanted to argue that he wasn’t progressing fast enough. That he should be able to let people come inside. He should be able to go on dates or hang out with friends, or even attend a life drawing event somewhere other than his studio, in a group setting in the safety of other people. But saying that would only reinforce that hedidneed a new therapist, and he wasn’t ready to attempt that again.
He realized Everett was saying his name. “Sorry, what?”
“I have to get back to work. Want me to call you later tonight?”
“No. Thanks for your perspective. I’ll let you go.”
Everett bent over his phone and looked into the camera. “Hey. Hang in there.”
Everything will be okay.
The screen blinked off, and Micah was staring at his own reflection. He scowled and tossed the phone on the bed. He’drather stare at the ten thousand blades of grass he’d be painting than look at himself.
Dropping onto the stool, he pulled up the client’s field photo on his computer, then mixed greens with blobs of crimson and ochre, and layered the strokes over swipes of deep evergreen. After a break to stretch his back and eat some of Ximena’s food, he went back at it, determined to make enough progress that he could snap a picture to prove to the client that it was getting done.
Something thudded down the hall, and Micah’s hand jumped, creating a dramatically long blade of grass. He stared at the canvas. That wasn’t his imagination, and this time, it wasn’t the neighbor’s closet door.
He groped for the knife under the table, squeezed the comforting grip of the handle, but left it there and crept into the hall.
“Hello?”
Faint music from someone’s TV drifted; a car door slammed from the street below; ragged breath whistled through his nose.
A sudden cacophony of metal jangling against metal thundered from the bathroom. A hard thud reverberated off the tub.
Micah screamed, imagining Jacob Marley using his shower. He hurried back to the drafting table and ripped the knife free. This was ridiculous. Ridiculous. But whether it was an intruder or the Ghost of Christmas Past, they were going to get a knife in their gut.
Squeezing the handle until his fingers cramped, he inched toward the bathroom and hoped his voice sounded aggressive. “Who’s there?”
After pulling in a steadying breath, he lunged through the doorway, only to be met with a bathroom as spotless as it had been earlier. He peeked behind the door, then turned to the tub. The frosted shower door was closed. Had he left it that way? He certainly hadn’t kicked the bathmat into the corner.
Light flared off the trembling blade in his grip, and he was certain he wouldn’t be able to hear anything else beyond the roar of blood in his ears. He reached for the handlebar on the shower door, straining for shadows moving beyond. The glass shuddered as he flung it open.
The knife pointed at empty space. Micah stared at a blue glob of body wash on the tile, then glanced down. A cherry red metal hoop sat in the bottom of the tub. He picked it up and turned it over. Hard water deposits laced the enamel surface. A shower curtain ring.
