Page 21 of Into Pitch

My bracelet blinks silver as I wipe the counter, but I don’t bother hiding it anymore. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything. If they ask, I’ll lie or shrug. Or tell them it was a thing. People don’t tend to press when you sound bored about something mysterious.

Imogen perches at the end of the bar, legs crossed, boots hooked under the rung, sketchbook opened but untouched. She’s been “keeping me company” for the last hour, which really means she’s making sure I eat something that isn’t fries and caffeine.

She watches me for a minute too long before the barrier on her silence breaks, simply because she can’t take it anymore. Like a box exploding because its contents are far too full.

“So, how was therapy?” She blurts.

I snort and reach for the tap again. “Real subtle.”

She grins despite herself. “I know.”

“It was fine,” I mutter, which is the biggest lie I’ve told today and not even close to the biggest one of this week. “We talked and he asked questions. I answered some of them. Not much to it, really.”

“Did you hate it?”

“No.”

That earns me her full attention. Not that I didn’t have it before, but now it’s been cranked high and alert.

“I didn’t feel like running out screaming, if that helps.” I muse.

“Oh, high praise.” She chuckles, tapping her fingers to the bar top.

A group off the far end of the bar erupts into laughter and I slide another round down, the noise washing over us like static. I like working busy nights. It allows less room for thinking and more for doing.

Imogen waits until I’m back to her end of the bar before continuing.

“Listen,” she murmurs carefully, the way she does when she’s about to push. “I was thinking… if you’re not going to sell your paintings yourself, you could let me.”

I sigh, pursing my lips and slapping my palms to the counter as I look to her knowingly. “I’m not ready for that.”

“You’ve been saying that for years.”

“Because it’s true.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Or because it’s safer.”

“You’re one to talk. You hid your sketchbooks under your bed for a decade.” I scoff.

“And then I stopped. And guess what? It didn’t kill me.”

I roll my eyes and look to the bar, tapping my fingers to the worn wood as I let my thoughts slide across the room. Not sure how I explain to her all that I’m feeling about that offer.

“I don’t have the luxury of ‘what if’,” I mutter.

“This”—I gesture around us—“works.”

“It pays the bills, Sadie. That is not the same thing.”

I pour myself a soda and take a long drink, bubbles burning down my throat as I study my friend. My mind drifts, unhelpfully, to a quiet office with soft lighting and a man who watches more than he speaks.

We’ll identify patterns first.

I shove the thought away.

“My mom wasn’t exactly big on stability,” I admit, surprising myself by saying it out loud. “So I learned early not to rely on things that have the penchant for disappearing. Letting myself live on my art would be being just as unstable as she was, and I don’t want to live that way again.”

Imogen’s expression softens, but she doesn’t interrupt. She never does when she manages to pry a little of the truth out of my chest. I lean toward her, folding my hands as my elbows land on the bar top and I give her a little more of myself.