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But I also want to keep my mother’s dream alive. That is what I want above everything. She was the most inspiring woman I’ve ever met, and her memory deserves to live on.

“Austin and I just came out of meeting with Missy, and she said something interesting.” The way his tone levels makes me realize just how serious he’s being. “They want to split up the company and are saying they found a buyer for the print and digital properties. She said you could be persuaded into selling your shares.”

I spoke to Dad and Missy a few weeks ago. They mentioned selling Sexton Media, but I didn’t think they were really serious. I feel like Missy has “amazing” new ideas every day. They can’t sell without us. Besides, keeping the company is for the best … right?

“No, man. I’m with you to the end,” I say with conviction as I try to convince myself at the same time.

“Enjoy your last few weeks of freedom and come home,” Bryce says. “I need you, Little Man.”

“Are you always going to call me that?”

He laughs at the nickname he gave me when he was eight years old. Apparently, my mom brought me home from the hospital, and Bryce’s first words were, “He looks like a little man.” It was cute at the time, but being twenty-two and six feet tall, I’m not so little anymore.

“Okay, well, I have someone waiting on the office line and a meeting that started two minutes ago. Love you, bro.”

“Love you, too.”

I enjoy talking to my brother just as much as I despise it. I want to help him while, selfishly, I wish it weren’t my responsibility to do so.

I walk up to my studio, and when I open the door, everything comes back full force. Everywhere I look, I see Harper. Especially when I see her Thank you staring back at me.

I turn to my speaker system, flipping through my songs until I stop at “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry, and I laugh at how much this song reminds me of her.

This place is a mess. Blankets and pillows are strewed on the ground. Paint cans were left open on the table, and my brushes have crusted over.

I blast the music and clean up my studio. I toss whatever is soiled in the washing machine in the front closet and soak my brushes in the kitchen sink. I wasted a shitload of paint, but it was worth it, I guess.

I’m drying my brushes when I stare up at the sheet on the wall again. I know I’ll never see her again, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. I walk over and take it down from the wall, roll it up, and place it in one of the cabinets before scrubbing the floors.

Two hours later, this place is cleaner than it’s been in weeks, and still, my body is tingling with anxiety. It’s not because of my conversation with Bryce. I’ve always been good at putting the drama away, compartmentalizing my feelings and moving on.

I know it’s because of her. No matter what song I listen to or how much I clean, I can’t rid the feeling that there’s unfinished business.

I put the last load of laundry in the dryer when curiosity gets the better of me, so I pull out my phone and do a Google search. Maybe it’s because I’m good at research or because I’m a twenty-two-year-old who knows way too much about social media, but I find her.

Harper Doyle.

There was only one Harper in all of the public school directories in Harlem. She teaches fifth grade, not far from here.

Maybe Ryan’s right, and I need to paint something to get her out of my system. I place my supplies in my backpack and head out the door.

Thankfully, it’s a cloudy night, so the sky is dark, and the street even darker. I walk around, my mind on nothing but her.

I glance up to a set of lit windows of an apartment building nearby, wondering if one of them is where she lives. I never even asked where she lived. I didn’t think I had to. I thought I’d have time to get to know her even more, but I was wrong.

My feet find their way to the elementary school. While my studio is on a popular street, well lit and bustling with businesses, the area just a few blocks over isn’t as nice.

Right next to the school is a building that’s been abandoned for a few years and riddled with squatters. It’s a detriment to an area that has such vitality. I look around and find a beat-up door that blocks off the entrance to the vacant building.

I don’t know if she’ll see this. I don’t even know if I’m doing this for her or more for myself. All I know is, my hands are itching to paint the vision I see in my mind, and the feeling won’t go away until I’ve put it out in the world—for everyone, or just for her, to see is still up for debate.

Heading toward the door, I place my backpack on the ground and unzip it, revealing the cans of spray paint, leaving the top propped open so that I can have easy access to them and also grab and run if the need arises.

With the red, I set the tone, coating the door with a light mist of crimson, so the rest will pop off the worn-out, dark door.

Holding a can of black in each hand, I begin the forms of a man and a woman dancing close together. I have to use cardboard to make the details. With their fingers interlaced, the man is pulling her body close to his with his other caressing her face.

Their eyes are locked on each other and lips slightly parted. I paint her sexy, toned legs while longing to feel them again. As I round out the curves of her breasts, I remember what it felt like when I held Harper’s in my hands.