Around me, students shuffle and become absorbed in their own work. I’m vaguely aware of Reid sketching, his head bobbing slightly from the music streaming into his ears. Every once in a while, his bicep brushes mine, and every single time, it drags my attention away from the articles for the briefest moment. I try to pay him no mind, enjoying that stream of perfect light as it drifts over onto my side of the desk.
I’ve never told anyone the specifics of what happened during my absence. Not Thiago, not even the police beyond what they needed to know. Harrison is who they blame, but he wasn’t working on his own. He was simply a pawn carrying out a favor for my birth father, Frederick, until he decided being a pawn didn’t suit him. He wanted to be the King, and he did whatever it took to bestow the title upon himself. The moments preceding Frederick’s death will haunt me for a long time. Possibly forever.
The marker starts to move faster now, my hand beginning to ache as entire paragraphs disappear beneath heavy black strokes. Names vanish. Speculation evaporates. And with it, shards of my fragmented soul start to piece back together. They don’t heal, but for the first time in months, they seem to fit just right.
At some point a shadow stretches across the table, darkening the scattered papers beneath my hands. I pause mid-stroke and glance up to find Reid leaning closer, reading over my shoulder. His features are pensive, deep in thought. I fight against the urge to squirm, to cover the papers with my arms like a five-year-old. His white hair has fallen slightly into his eyes, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it as he studies the ink-soaked pages.
“You never asked me,” he mumbles under his breath. My brows twitch.
“Asked what?” I practically whisper, as if we are sharing some secret that is meant for us only. Reid swallows as he slides his open sketchbook towards me. I barely glance at the feminine figure spread across the page, my chest stirring with an uneasy feeling.
“About the paintings. I know you saw them.” His gray eyes cut a side glance at me, calculating my reaction. “You never asked me about them.” Sitting back an inch, needing to put the breathing room between us, I clear my throat.
“I figured they…they should remain private.” I half shrug. Reid’s expression doesn’t shift, but I sense that he doesn’t buy my bullshit lie. “And maybe I was scared of the answer, but now you’ve brought it up. Why did you paint me like…that?”
Reid doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his fingers brushing absent patterns into the edge of his sketchbook. His gaze doesn’t quite meet mine this time, drifting somewhere across the room like he’s replaying something only he can see. When he finally exhales, it’s restrained, as if each word has to be carefully selected before it leaves his mouth.
“Because that’s how you looked,” he replies quietly, a blunt honesty landing between us. I glance down at the sketch again, taking it in properly this time. The woman is curled in on herself, her knees drawn in, the knots along her spine grotesquelynoticeable. There are slashes across her back, shaded bruises dipping in and out of her prominent ribcage. Dark hair falls forward like an ink spill across the page, mixing into the puddle of tears streaming from her eyes. Around her, Reid has filled the page with words. Some are tiny, some are huge, the press of the pencil seeming almost painful.
Broken. Powerful. Splintered. Stubborn. Alone. Beaten. Obstinate. Crushed. Brave. Absent. Fearless. Dejected.The list goes on, but the biggest word curved over her body is the one my eyes are repeatedly drawn back to.CAPTAIN. My throat tightens, my head beginning to spin as Reid licks his lips.
“I draw what I see, not what I want. It started in rehab. Whilst you were fighting so hard to keep anyone out, you had no idea how much you were actually revealing. I saw it all.” His gaze flicks to mine, catching the way my chin is starting to wobble. I push down any sign of weakness, despite the fact Reid has just told me he’ll see it all anyway.
“I…I didn’t know you even noticed me.” My voice is barely more than whisper. Reid rolls his eyes and huffs, lifting his pencil to add a word to my personal dictionary.Oblivious. I don’t have time to scoff as he tears the page from his sketchbook and places it beneath my nose.
“You can edit what others say or think about you, but it won’t be enough. This is your story, whether you like it or not. This is where you need to start.” My head is swimming now, the room tilting slightly as I look back down at the sketch. By the way he’s captured parts of me I didn’t even know were visible. It’s invasive, exposing pieces of me that I didn’t give him permission to see. Yet there’s something else buried beneath the discomfort. Something unsettlingly close to being understood.
“I—” I start, my voice catching as the shrill ring of the bell sounds across campus. The fragile, quiet bubble that had formed around us shatters. Stools scrape back as students begin packingup, conversations sparking to life again as if my world isn’t imploding in the center of the studio. Reid closes his sketchbook in one, smooth motion, pushing it into his satchel. He stands, slinging the bag over his shoulder, his expression already resetting. Turning to leave, my hand lashes out and I grab his wrist. Reid stills, his curious gaze looking back over his shoulder. I promptly release him.
“You were wrong about one thing,” I declare, picking up the black marker and striking out a single word on his page. Pushing to stand, I lift the page and attempt to give it back to him. “I was never alone.” Reid stands for a moment, his eyes steady on me as if hunting for the lie. Then, when he doesn’t find one, he nods slowly.
“Keep it. It’s not my story, remember?” He leaves, heading out the door without looking back. I just stand there with the page still clutched in my hand, the echo of his words settling in my chest. That strip of sunlight presses against my back, heat creeping in. I bathe in it, my eyes dropping down to the sketch again. To the version of me Reid saw when I didn’t know anyone was looking.
“There’s more to him than meets the eye, huh?” Liz’s voice sounds from somewhere to my left. I blink, noticing that it’s just the two of us left. Liz is watching me from beside the supply table, her expression thoughtful. Oh there’s a lot more to Reid that I can’t even begin to understand. Not while he’s so busy psychoanalyzing me anyway.
I tilt my head, setting the drawing onto the newspapers. It seems counterproductive, to spend all morning manufacturing a certain version of myself, only to have Reid shit all over it and tell me who he thinks I am. But he’s not wrong. It’s just a version I wasn’t prepared to accept.
“Many of the students who take my class are coming here to hide. It’s my job to guide them.” Liz steps closer, her bangles clinking softly with each step.
“To what? Being healed?” I ask without looking up. She laughs quietly, reaching the other side of the table to look upon the drawing. I don’t try to shield it. Apparently, I’m an open book anyway.
“That’s not my place. I’m just an art tutor. If my students graduate with a better sense of self, an understanding of who they could be, that’s all I can ask for.”
Nodding, I reach out for the marker and click the cap in place. Then, I roll up the drawing and pack it away for later reflection. Skidding the newspapers back across the desk, my hand settles upon the stack.
“I have no idea how to pass your class,” I suddenly laugh, remembering where I am. It’s been a heavy morning, but not the worst. Not by a long shot. Maybe this is part of what I’m supposed to do, become a better me so that I can be of more use to Laura. A hand touches the back of mine, giving a gentle squeeze.
“Don’t concern yourself with passing. If you’ve made progress, you’ll pass. You’ll only fail if you don’t try.” A small smile touches Liz’s lips. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Liz is a better therapist than any of those I’ve sat across from in all these months. I reckon she’d give my own mother a run for her money. Speaking of which, I have a group session to get to.
“Thanks,” I say to Liz, “for everything.”
“Same time tomorrow,” she bobs her brows and retreats to her desk. I step out of the stream of sunlight, inhaling deeply and a smile spreads across my face. It’s wide, aching my cheeks as I think to myself, I can’t wait to tell Thiago about this. In person.
Chapter Thirty
Thiago wasn’t joking about the flowers. He ambushed me with them the second I left the stadium. I’d had the good sense to dart back to my room during my lunch for a calf-length black dress that crisscrosses over my shoulder blades. Given that he’s in a shirt, slacks and a smart mac coat, it was a good call.
Now, the ridiculous, over-the-top bouquet of deep red roses sits in the center of the small table he’s claimed by the window. The restaurant is just off-campus, a ten minute cab ride to a hidden Italian place I never knew was here. The tablecloth is red plaid, framed by twin candles that flicker as I laugh.
