I hope our trust is like a diamond. The real thing. Not an imitation.
THE OLIVE BRANCH
DAMON
The three ibuprofensI’ve taken pre-emptively to survive two hours seated next to a walking fucking caricature arenotworking. Does the woman ever shut up? If she’s not throwing unwanted opinions my way, she’s humming unbelievably annoying show tunes under her breath.
I rub my temples, my eyes strained as I attempt to focus on this week’s assignment: a landscape. At least I'm not required to drown my trauma in another bowl of bruised fucking fruit. After last week’s session, the sight of an apple is now nauseating.
Nauseating…likemeapparently.
“You should add some stars.”
I ignore her, biting my tongue as I focus on the short strokes of my brush.
“Seriously, dude. Stars. It’ll brighten it up. It looks so dark and sad right now. You need stars. Like, look at all those trees and mountains you have there.” She points her neon yellow nail at my canvas. “Clearly, this is somewhere in the countryside, right? And if you areindeedout in the country, then there would be stars. So not only would adding stars make it less depressing, it would bewaymore accurate.”
I snap my head toward Sage-the-Critic. “Saystarsone more time.”
She flashes me a wide, taunting grin. “Stars.”
The grip on my paintbrush tightens, and her gaze darts directly to my white knuckles.
“Oh, shit.” She throws her head back and chuckles. “What are you going to do, Damon? Stab me with the pointy end?” She glances around the studio and lowers her voice. “Too many witnesses, bud. You’d never get away with it.”
I shut my eyes, defeated. “Do youeverstop talking?”
“Of course.” She pauses, and I foolishly open my eyes. “When I sleep.”
Jesus Christ. This is what hell must feel like. This must be a preview of what’s to come. This is what I can expect after I die. An eternity with Sage. Great. Can’t wait.
Before I can tell her for the umpteenth time to shut it, her gaze darts to the front door, and she hops off her stool, leaving me in peace and quiet for the first time in nearly two hours.
I glance at my finished canvas, the scenery staring back, almost like I’m looking in the mirror. I’ve painteda mountain landscape in the dead of winter. The trees are jagged, covered in snow. It’s dark, desolate, a perfect hiding spot for the guilty, for those on the run from karma.
As I study the painting, a sense of longing washes over me. It's a longing for something I can't quite name, a yearning for a connection that seems just out of reach. And then it hits me like a goddamn train.
The helicopter. Emery. The fireplace. The Christmas tree. The ornament. The way she looked at me. The ring I bought. The ring she tried on. The joy I felt. It was before. Before I knew. Before him. Before us.
Before. Before. Before.
A loud bark jerks me out of the pained thoughts, and I nearly fall off my stool as a set of furry paws pounce against my thigh.
“Oops! Sorry!” Sage crouches down beside the slobbering Golden Retriever. “Hey, we don’t do that, Sherlock, okay? We don’t do that.”
I blink. “Your dog’s name is Sherlock?”
She grins, scratching the dog’s scruff. “Yes. Sherlock Bones. Bones, for short. Sherlock when he’s being a bad boy.” She pouts at her pet. “Are you being a bad boy, huh? Huh?”
I sigh. “Are dogs even allowed in here?”
She rolls her eyes. “He’s a service dog, you turd. He’s allowed everywhere.”
“Aren’t service dogs supposed to be well-behaved?”
In a snap, Sage rises to her feet and crosses her arms. “Bones is incredibly well-behaved. He just got alittle excited.” She snorts. “Not sure why, given you’re as dull as an eraser head.”
I glower at her. “Your insults could use some work.”
