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In my dreams, she’s there, lying on top of me, her hands caressing my chest, my shoulders, my neck.

She whispers against my skin, “Show me.”

And somewhere between dreaming and awake, I let my hand do what my body so desperately craves. With her name on my lips, I let the vision of her, riding me like the beautiful, confident woman she is, carry me through until I’m calling out for her and spilling my seed all over my own hand.

After I clean myself up, I hit the shower again, and crawl into bed, feeling more at home than I have since I moved in. I’m finally surrounded by the things that make me, me, and I think about what my sister said. I wasn’t just happy when Sunny was around, I was free to be myself, and I know I never would have gotten there without her.

CHAPTER 32

SUNNY

Four months later

The inspiration won’t come. The more I stare at these paints, the less I feel like a true artist.

I’ve had a pretty amazing experience so far in the program, after the first few weeks of misery. At the end of the first month, I started sleeping through the night. I stopped crying and started making friends.

I still miss him so much it hurts. He is always in my dreams, and whenever I start painting or sketching anything he is there. But it isn’t killing me anymore. Time is not going to heal this wound, but at least I can grow used to the pain.

Our first showcase is this weekend, and we’ve each been given a commissioned area of the downtown square for their annual City Arts Festival to design and display however and whatever we want. I have a sketchbook full of ideas, but nothing feels powerful or important enough.

“Girl, just start painting,” Hanna, my German roommate, calls toward me while I stare at the spray paint cans at my feet. I’ve started to fall in love with spray paint. It was never my usual medium, but there’s something about the toxic smell and way you can manipulate it that’s led me to pick it up more than my brushes anymore. That and my acrylics still bring back too many memories.

If I pop open my paints, I smell them on his skin. I feel his lips on my back. I hear his voice in my ear. But he’s not really there, so I don’t bother teasing myself.

I didn’t invite him to the festival. Of course, it’s a free event to the public, so maybe he’ll come anyway. Maybe he’ll bring someone new. Maybe I’ll see him strolling through the crowd, admiring the sidewalk chalk display with a supermodel on his arm and a look on his face like he doesn’t even remember my name.

I did invite my mom, Cadence, and my dad. I haven’t spoken to Dad since the fight, and I doubt he’ll come, but I feel ready to finally put the pain and anger I hold toward him behind me. I’d like to act like a regular father and daughter now, unless he chooses not to show, at which point I will move on anyway.

Love cannot be replaced. The love someone denies you cannot be filled by someone else. Alexander gave me enough of it to make up for what my parents denied me, but it was never intended to. He didn’t give me love to fill the empty cup. He gave me love to teach me how to stand on my own without it.

Those times he forced my chin up, made me look at what I’d accomplished, what I deserved…he built the legs I’m strong enough to stand on now. The rest of them were only concerned with knocking them out from underneath me, so I never had to look down on them.

I know Cadence is coming. I’ve spoken to her every day, and I get the feeling that watching me pursue my dream is inspiring her. I can’t wait to see her face.

I hope my mother comes. I want to see her face outside of our backyard.

“You’re going to run out of time, you hussy. Start painting.” I’ve gotten used to Hanna’s brash attitude and terms of endearment. I hated her at first. I was in so much pain and moping, but she was never gentle with telling me to snap out of it, stop crying, and use my pain in my art. She is German through and through.

The other housemates have been kind and wonderful, but I didn’t bond with them the way I did with Hanna.

“You’re nervous because you think he’ll come,” she calls over to me from her spot of eight-by-eight, taped up along the wall. “Or you're nervous he won’t come. Either way, use it and start fucking painting!”

“Both,” I mumble as I pick up the seafoam green paint. If I paint something he’d like to see, I’ll be disappointed when he doesn’t show. If I don’t paint something for him, I’ll miss an opportunity to show him something of meaning if he comes.

“Come on, Sunny,” she calls, and I laugh. Her painting isn’t much more done than mine, and this is all we really have to finish this week, so I don’t know why she’s being such a pain in my ass.

Hearing her say my name makes me think of the first time she heard it and laughed at me. “You are anything but Sunny,” she said, and it immediately made me bawl because it’s what he said. It took me a couple more weeks before I opened up to her about that and told her what his nickname was for me. His little rain cloud.

I don’t feel much like a rain cloud anymore. At least I’m not so down and sad anymore. I’m still sad, but I live with it. I work through it, and I use it to push me forward. Don’t get me wrong, I’d kill to see him again. I’d crawl back to our bed if I could, and I don’t foresee myself ready to move on to anyone else anytime soon. I can’t even look at other guys right now, and I definitely underestimated the amount of partying that would go on here. But none of it interests me.

Part of me is still holding out for him. I know that. And I know that will go away with time, too.

The idea of the rain cloud nags at my mind, and I look down at my colors again. Without a sketch, I grab the gray paint and stare at the wall.

“Fuck it,” I say, and start the outline of a cloud on the wall. Within minutes, I have a full sketch in my head, and I have to move fast before it goes away. Whether he comes or not, I’ll make sure he sees this. I think he’ll be proud of it.

The day of the festival comes around, and I’m so busy running around, helping set everything up, that I don’t even register my own nerves. It’s the first nice weekend of the year, and it’s finally warm enough for people to be outside, so the streets are instantly flooded. The wall of student submissions is just along the main drag, giving us a perfect view of the crowds. We’re supposed to stand by our artwork all day, but the sun is blazing, and even with the cool breeze, I feel like I’m sweating to death. It’s already crowded when I find my rain cloud and stand by it. Hanna is there next to me, taking hits off her vape pen every five minutes.