“Not that I can recall,” I murmur, woefully humbled by the tiny art geek.
“Figures.” Her gaze zeros in on the monstrosity she’s painting. I scowl at her odd color choices. There isn’t even a lemon in the bowl. What is she doing? “I bet you pay people to follow you around and shout compliments.” She puts on an awful aristocratic English accent. “Oh, Mr. Cavanaugh, aren’t you simply dashing? Mr. Cavanaugh, the way you walk resembles that of an elegant gazelle. Oh, Mr. Cavanaugh, your shit smells like the finest bouquet of roses!”
I blanch at her absurdity. “I?—”
She grins. “Uh-oh, Sage got your tongue?”
I blink. “Is this how you normally speak to strangers?”
“Strangers?” She points a finger to a tacky plaque drilled into the wall. “We’reall family here, Damon. Or can’t you read?” She snickers to herself. “My bad, you’ve probably got someone to read signsforyou. It would be a complete travesty if you had to use your own precious eyes to read for yourself, wouldn’t it?’
“I’m sorry,” I drawl out, completely floored by her attitude, “but have I done something to offend you?”
Her head snaps in my direction, and she grins. “No, why would you ask me such a silly question?” She nods to my untouched paint and brushes. “Better get painting, champ. The best portrait wins,” her eyes light up with feigned glee, “a chocolate bar!”
“You’re an odd woman,” I mumble, choosing to focus on the task at hand and not the strange human perched to my right.
"I’d rather be odd than boring." She dips her brush into the pot of black paint, glancing over at my empty canvas. "You know, Damon, this painting is supposed to be an expression of yoursoul. What does it say that yours is still blank?"
I sigh, regretting every life decision that led me to this art class. "Perhaps I’m soulless then."
It’s the truth.
“Sheesh…” Sage purses her lips, giving me a careful once-over. "Someone sounds a little stresso-depresso. You should pick up your brush. Painting can be therapeutic, you know?"
I scoff. I’ve tried that,Sage. Do I look healed to you?
"Mhmm.”
She leans in, her eyes narrowing with a surprisingintensity. "Itcouldhelp, you know. You don’t exactly look like a paragon of great mental health. No offense.”
Taken aback by her unfiltered honesty, I glower at her. "What are you talking about?"
"Sage." She points to herself as if I needed clarification. "That's my name. Sage. ‘What are you talking about,Sage?’” She chuckles to herself when I don’t respond. “Sorry, my therapist says I use humor to deflect my real feelings."
I'm not accustomed to people being so upfront, especially about something as personal as therapy. But before I can even process it, she continues rambling.
"I mean, who knew, right? Apparently, I'm here to paint away my grief. My therapist thinks it helps with trauma or some crap. My mom died several months ago from cancer. It was brutal, and now I'm supposed to find solace in a bowl of fruit and a canvas." She lets out a bitter laugh, swiping at a tear that escapes despite her attempts to remain composed. "Trauma therapy through art. Who comes up with this stuff?"
I offer a hesitant nod, a gesture of nuanced understanding.
Sage, however, doesn't wait for my response. "Didn't your family also die?"
I'm stunned, rendered speechless by her forward question and her lack of tact. But Sage, apparently unfazed by my silence, continues. "My therapist says talking about it is the first step to healing. Have you ever tried talking about your family, Damon?"
I can't muster a response, my mind caught in the cyclone of her abrupt revelations and the unsettlingrealization that I'm now expected to share my own traumas. This class was a horrible fucking idea.
“Hello? Earth to Damon!” she singsongs, frowning. “You still with me? Yoohoo.”
“I don’t discuss my personal life with strangers,” I grunt, aggressively sticking a brush into black paint.
“Do you need me to point to the sign again?” she quips, grinning. “Sharing is caring, Damon. If you don’t talk about it, you’ll never get over it.”
“I’m fine.” I destroy the pristine canvas with dark shades and shapes. “I think it’s time to stop talking now.”
She clicks her tongue. “Uh-oh. I’ve offended him.”
I shoot her a withering glare. "You have no right to pry into my personal life. It's none of your business."
