Page 15
Abusive ex-husband tries to kill you? Maddox snaps his neck like a fucking twig.
Don’t get me wrong—the man walks a fine line between morally gray and downright unhinged, but that is part of what makes him who he is. I’ve watched him claw his way up from rock bottom, losing everything he had, to building a life far beyond what he ever dreamed of. I couldn’t be prouder of the big idiot. Proud of him, and proud of Evie too. They’ve endured more than their fair share of hardships, and if anyone deserves a chance to finally breathe easy, it’s those two.
And finding out they were having a girl? That was the fucking icing on the cake. The second that pink confetti burst into the air, it was like the whole world softened—everyone laughing, crying, holding onto each other like it was the only thing that made sense. Vic really outdid himself.
But I wasn’t watching the sky. I was watching Henry. The way his face lit up with pride for his brother, one hand gripping his mama’s, the other wrapped tightly around my sister, and then he looked at me. Really looked at me. Eyes full of hope, like he saw a future I’d long stopped believing in.
In that moment, all I felt was a sharp, aching pull in my chest. Because I knew—I knew—that all I’d ever give him was the slow burn of disappointment.
“What’s got you so lost in thought over there?”
I pin my best friend with a knowing look, but the bitch just gives me a smile that rivals the fucking sun. Leave it to Evie to survive abuse, rape, and attempted murder, and still shine brighter than anyone else on earth.
Half glass full and all that shit.
Now, here I am in the nursery. No confetti, no celebration—just me, a paintbrush in my hand, and the soft hum of my own thoughts filling the room. The accent wall in front of me is all that matters. The golden arch curves in the center, framed by intricate baroque flowers—roses, violets, twisting vines—each petal and leaf brushed delicately in shades of cream and blush. It’s slow, deliberate work, like I’m painting something sacred, something meant to last forever.
My hands move with purpose, each stroke adding to the vision, but the quiet in the room feels almost too heavy, like the walls are watching me. I try not to think about the ache in my chest, the pressure of getting this right, of doing something beautiful, of being something I’m not sure I can be.
I don’t notice Evie at first—quiet as a breath, propped up in the doorway, arms crossed like armor. Her eyes are sharp, calculating, tracking every movement like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to piece together without the box top.
She doesn’t say a word. Just stands there. Still. Watching.
The silence between us grows loud, pressing in on my shoulders, settling heavy in my chest. It crackles with everything we’ve never said. Everything we probably won’t.
Finally, I break it. “I’m not dealing with your husband when he comes home to find you in here breathing in these damn paint fumes,” I mutter, nodding at the brush in my hand as I add a soft line of wildflowers to the corner of the wall.
Evie doesn’t rise to the bait. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t roll her eyes.
She just stares at the mural taking shape across her daughter’s room—petals, stars, sky washed in soft twilight hues.
“You’re so talented, Lou,” she says, voice low. Barely above a whisper. Like she’s afraid the wrong tone might spook me.
I close my eyes and swallow hard. The praise hits deeper than it should. “This isn’t something I do often,” I say, my voice rough around the edges. “Or…at all anymore.”
There’s a pause. Then her hand finds my arm, warm and light. Careful.
“I know,” she says.
I nod, but the tightness in my chest doesn't ease.
They knew, but they didn’t understand.
They didn’t understand how much it hurt to pick up a paintbrush or pencil without Daddy. Art had always been our thing—our quiet refuge. For as long as I can remember, we’d sit together at that scratched-up kitchen table, sketchbooks spread before us, the outside world fading until it was just the scratch of pencil tips and the swirl of paint.
Daddy was just a steel mill worker—no fancy degrees, no grand plans. But his hands—rough, calloused, stained with grease and ash—held a kind of magic. After a day spent drenched in sweat and coated in fly ash, he’d come home exhausted, the scent of metal and smoke clinging to him. Yet, he never skipped our ritual. He’d strip off his work clothes, steam rising from the quick shower he took, and then settle into his chair. The kitchen light cast a golden glow over the table, warming the worn wood beneath our arms.
I’d climb into his lap, just like always, fingers itching to reach the pages where our world came alive.
“What's it going to be today, Lu-Lu?” His voice was always rough, warm—like a worn leather jacket you could always count on. It wrapped around me, steady and safe.
No matter how wild the idea was, no matter how simple or strange, he could make it happen. He could turn a half-drawn dragon into something that felt alive. He could make the stars feel like they were within reach. No one else could do that. Not like him.
As I grew older, those sketchbooks became our secret language. I’d start a drawing, and he’d finish it. Sometimes, he’d sketch first, and I’d add the final touch. It wasn’t just art anymore—it was a conversation, a connection, a way to be seen without saying a word.
He’d bring me books on art history—thick, worn volumes bursting with color and stories that made the world seem full of endless possibilities. We’d sit for hours, sprawled on the floor or at the kitchen table, fingers tracing the brushstrokes on the pages like we could pull the paintings right out of the paper.
We talked about everything—the way light flickered in Impressionist skies, the raw emotion behind every stroke, the hidden stories in portraits and landscapes. I’d talk about the masters, the movements, the magic I thought was just for us. And he’d listen, eyes warm and shining, a slow smile tugging at his lips like every word I said made him prouder.
