Page 85 of Hunter

He continues, calm and steady. “We’re going to work on that. The insecurity. The possessiveness. The guilt. All of it. But first, you need to understand something important, Hunter.”

He waits until I look at him.

“Intimacy isn’t a right. It’s not something you get to demand, no matter how much you want someone. You crossed a line. And that’s something you’re going to have to sit with.”

I nod, throat tight. “I know.”

The rest of the session passes in a blur of questions I don’t want to answer and truths I don’t want to face. When the hour is up, I feel more exhausted than I did after any bender.

Dr. Middleton stands and hands me a card with an AA meeting schedule on the back.

“Same time next week,” he says. “And Hunter? This only works if you’re honest. Even when it’s ugly.”

I take the card and nod.

As I walk out of the building, the weight of everything I admitted sits heavy on my shoulders.

I still haven’t heard from Charlie.

And I’m starting to think that might be for the best.

Chapter 34

Charlie

A few weeks later

Life has settled into a rhythm I can almost trust again.

I go to the therapy circle on Tuesdays and Fridays, even when it hurts to sit across from Hunter’s empty chair. I go to pole class with Lucy three times a week, spinning until my muscles burn and my head goes quiet. I show up for my shifts at the art store, helping customers find the perfect shade of paint while Mrs. Lovelady sneaks me slightly damaged supplies like always.

I’m trying. Really trying.

But every night I end up in front of my easel.

I’ve painted Hunter more times than I can count. Some are soft—him asleep on my couch with Sofia on his chest, the morning light across his scars. Some are darker—shadows and tension, the way his eyes looked right before he pinned me down. Some are just fragments: his hands, the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders curved when he held me like I was something precious.

Tonight, I’m finishing the last piece.

It’s Hunter standing next to the fountain right after I told him we both needed to heal—shoulders tense, hands in his pockets, watching me with pain in his eyes. The colors are deep and moody, but there’s a sliver of warm light cutting across his face. Hope, maybe. Or regret.

I set the brush down and step back, wiping my hands on an old rag. The portfolio is spread across my living room floor—twenty pieces, some finished, some raw sketches, all of him. My heart feels too big for my chest as I look at them.

Lucy lets herself in without knocking, carrying takeout like she does every Thursday. She stops in the doorway, eyes widening as she takes in the scene.

“Jesus, Charlie… you finished it?”

I nod, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. Just now. I think… I think it’s ready.”

She sets the food down and walks slowly through the paintings, taking her time with each one. When she reaches the last piece, she stops for a long moment.

“These are incredible,” she says quietly. “Raw. Honest. A little heartbreaking.” She turns to me, eyes shining. “You have to submit this. The gallery on Broadway by East 4th Street has that open call for emerging artists. Deadline is tomorrow. You should do it.”

I chew on my lower lip, arms wrapped around myself. “It feels… exposing. Like I’m putting everything I felt for him on a wall for strangers to see.”

Lucy steps closer and takes my hands.

“That’s what makes it powerful,” she says gently. “You turned pain into something beautiful. That’s what art is supposed to do. And maybe…maybe putting it out there will help you let go a little.”