Page 86 of Hunter

I look back at the paintings. At all the versions of Hunter I couldn’t stop creating.

“I still miss him,” I admit, voice small. “Even after everything. Even knowing we both need to heal.”

“I know, babe.” She pulls me into a hug, squeezing tight. “But missing him doesn’t mean you have to wait for him. You can heal and create and live your life. And if he ever gets his shit together…he’ll know exactly where to find you.”

I hug her back, letting myself breathe for a moment.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll submit it.”

Lucy grins against my shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

She pulls back but doesn’t let go completely, keeping her hands on my arms as she looks at me with that mix of pride and worry she’s perfected over the years.

“I’m really proud of you,” she says softly. “I know you think you still need to heal, but I think you’re doing just fine.”

I glance around at the sea of Hunter’s faces and bodies surrounding us on the floor. All of them are pieces of my heart I’m about to hand over to strangers.

“It feels scary,” I admit. “Like I’m putting my whole messy feelings on display. What if people see right through me?”

Lucy squeezes my arms gently. “Then they’ll see someone who loves deeply, even when it hurts. That’s not a weakness, Charlie.”

I lean my forehead against hers for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo and the faint chalk from pole class.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I whisper.

“You’d be a mess,” she teases, but her voice is thick. “A beautiful, talented, dramatic mess. But you’d still be you. But you’ll never need to find out, because you have me for the rest of your life.”

I laugh, the sound watery but real. “Promise?”

“Always.” She pulls me into another tight hug, rocking us slightly. “You’re going to be okay. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

We stay like that for a long minute, just holding each other in the middle of my living room surrounded by paintings of the man I’m still not over.

Eventually she pulls back, wiping at her eyes with a dramatic sniff. “Okay, enough of this. Pack up that portfolio before I start ugly crying and ruin my mascara. Then we’re eating ice cream and watching trash reality TV until you fall asleep on the couch.”

I smile, small but genuine, and nod.

After she leaves later that night, I pull out all of my work and sit on the floor surrounded by every painting and sketch of Hunter I’ve done. I carefully package them up, write the submission letter with shaking hands, and print it out before I can talk myself out of it.

I package it all up for tomorrow, taking one last look at the final painting by the fountain. It’s the end of the story. The bitter end.

“I hope you’re healing, too,” I whisper into the quiet room before sliding the painting into the portfolio package.

Then I turn off the lights, curl up in bed with Sofia, and watch the lights pass on the ceiling until sleep takes me.

The next afternoon, I stand outside the small gallery on Broadway with the heavy portfolio tucked under my arm like it might burn me if I hold it too long.

The building is unassuming from the outside—clean white walls, large windows, a simple black sign that reads “Yates Art Gallery.” A small placard in the window announces their open call for emerging artists. Deadline: Today.

My hands are sweating. My heart is hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I almost turn around three different times on the trip here.

But I don’t.

I push open the door.

The inside smells like fresh paint and polished wood. Soft lighting, clean lines, a few pieces already hanging. A woman with bright and styled glasses and a warm smile looks up from the desk.

“Hi, are you here for the open call?”