Tears fall once again, and I don’t hide them this time.
I wrap my arms around myself, blinking at Weston through my blurred sight, because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to explain how badly I needed to hear that.
I wipe my eyes, vision clearing in time to see him moving toward me, a soothing smile on his lips. He passes me slowly, running his fingers along my forearm, tender and featherlight, as if stealing one touch for himself. “I’ll give you some space. See you soon, Willow.”
Sparks ignite over my flesh at the feel of his skin on mine and the invigorating timber of his deep voice. They spread all throughout my being, wrapping me in warmth as he leaves me alone with the ferns.
“I think youmay actually be a genius,” I huff, dropping into the chair beside Penelope’s desk.
I just finished my first lecture as her assistant, and listening to her speak about art—its influence on humankind, and the way we’re still impacted by the artists of the past—is inspiring. There is nothing boring about the way she lectures. She doesn’t drone on as if she’d rather be anywhere else. Every word she speaks is purposeful and filled with passion.
She laughs, shuffling through a pile of papers. “I just love what I do.”
“What made you want to be an artist?” I ask.
“I never wanted to be an artist,” she says quietly, beginning to pack her bag. “I was good at drawing, and I’ve always enjoyed doing things I’m good at, so it kind of became like a therapy to me. Reminded me I was capable of having value without earning it. There was a skill I was simply just... born with, and I didn’t have to question whether I deserved it.” She shrugs, glancing at me. “I wouldn’t say I wanted to be an artist, though. That would mean accepting the risk of failure—and losing the love and enjoyment of it. I focused on history academically because I also enjoyed that. Studying the past—the mistakes of humankind and how we healed ourselves. Archaeology felt like a way of blending the two together. Even now, despite the number of my paintings my husband hangs in that gallery, I don’t consider myself an artist. At least, not in the sense of my career or accomplishments. I think that would negate the identity of it—the piece entwined in my soul.” She scrunches her nose before a laugh bursts from her lips. “Does any of that make sense?”
“It does.” I nod. “Absolutely. I think that’s why I want to study art therapy. I want to paint for myself before I paint for anyone else, and I want to help other people learn to create for themselves—to heal themselves through art.”
I’ve begun painting again this week. I was afraid after everything with Parker, after terminating the pregnancy, I’d never pick up a brush again. I had no idea how it would affect me, and while each day is still a struggle, art has helped.
I woke a couple mornings ago to find I was bleeding. I’ve been spotting on and off since I took the medication, and each time, I sink to the bathroom floor and cry until I can’t breathe. It’s like being blanketed in a dull sadness—like the guilt and fear and rage all roll themselves together into one heavy sensationthat envelops every inch of my skin, and no matter how violently I thrash beneath it, I can’t get it off. The blood is a reminder of the inescapable decision I made.
That morning, though, I forced myself to my feet once the tears dried up, and I stumbled down the hall to the spare bedroom my parents allowed me to convert into an art studio. I fell into some sort of trance, sinking deeper into my feelings than I typically allow myself to, until my canvas was streaked in color—abstract and messy but somehow beautiful.
I felt lighter after that. I shed part of that weight, realized that I’m still me. I can still create—I can keep those parts of me intact, even if I’ve lost other pieces of myself.
Penelope smiles, squeezing my hand once before tossing her bag over her shoulder. “All right, I need to head back to Santa Monica. Last week I assigned the class an essay on their current favorite piece of ancient art. My goal is to expand their knowledge enough by the end of the summer that they’ll each discover something new they love even more. Before you leave, would you mind checking the submission portal, mark those who did not complete the assignment, and then forward the rest of the essays to me so I can look them over this weekend?”
“Of course,” I say. Penelope nods, but as she turns toward the door, I blurt out the question I’ve been wanting to ask her all afternoon. “Can you give me Weston’s phone number?”
She cocks her head, raising a brow. “You can’t ask your dad for that?”
“Dad’s been weird since the whole...” I trail off, fluttering my hand in reference to the past eight weeks of my life.
“It’s understandable. He’s protective.” She sighs, already pulling out her phone, and a moment later mine buzzes with a forwarded contact. It’s a photo of Weston, more boyish than he is now, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen as he holds up a gold medal, dark hair wet and dripping over his forehead. The sameway it looked when I ran into him in the shower last week. “I’m glad you and Weston have connected. He has trouble with that, but I think he could use a friend.” She smiles softly. “You’re a good one to have, Willow.”
“Thanks,” I whisper. “I think I need a friend too.”
Her smile fades, brows pinching. “Have you considered talking to someone about... everything?”
“Yeah, I know I need to find myself a therapist.” I laugh awkwardly, fiddling with the ends of my hair. “I’m just not sure I’m there yet.”
“I get it.” She nods. “Sometimes abuse doesn’t look the way we expect, and that can make it harder to accept. Harder to process. Just remember that everything you feel is valid, and healing looks different for every person, but I’ve found that sharing the burden with others can help.”
“What . . .”
I never told Penelope about what Parker did. She knows I had an abortion, but nothing about the event that caused it. Even if I had told her, I wouldn’t have called it abuse—even the patterns of his behavior that only became clear in the aftermath of my assault. I’d never heard of it referred to that way until Weston used the word last week.
I don’t know at what point actions turn from incidents to abuse, and I’m not sure what his would’ve become if I had stayed, but it’s still not a word I would’ve chosen.
I don’t know why Penelope would be under that impression. Unless . . . “Did Weston . . .?”
“No.” Penelope shakes her head rapidly. “It’s just... there are more of us out there than you may realize, and sometimes we see the signs in each other. That’s all.” She holds her hands up in surrender. “And I don’t need to be the person you talk to about any of it, Willow. I’m not trying to pressure you—I just want you to know that you’re not alone.”
I’m still twirling my hair around my finger, dropping my gaze as I ask, “Do you think you’re healed?”
“Healing isn’t linear. We carry our baggage our entire life, and sometimes it weighs. But I’m a very happy person, and I have been for a long time.”
