“Christ, Adele, that was a fucking mistake.”
“Take my hand, Della,” he commanded.
“I’m good.”
He sighed and squatted beside me. “Is there a reason you’re being more stubborn than usual today?”
“No.”
The way he eyed me called me out on my bullshit without so much as a word.
I palmed my lids and exhaled softly. I’d gotten a few hours of sleep but was stressed about exams and a final project for Contemporary Art I still hadn’t started. All those things were weeks away, but professors were keen on reminding us that they lingered.
“School,” I admitted. Life. Dancing. Art.
He moved his pantlegs up before sitting down with his knees bent and arms resting on top of them. “What about it?”
I blinked at the expensive light-colored gray pants he adorned before meeting his gaze. “You’re going to get grass stains.”
“So are you.”
Glancing down at the cheap tee and denim shorts I wore I shook my head. “My stuff doesn’t cost as much as yours. Plus, most of my clothes are stained anyway.”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he waited for me to indulge him on my problems. Why did I always do that? Theo should be sick of me by now considering how much of his life I’ve taken up with my burdens.
They’re not all yours, a small voice reminded me. I flicked it away.
“I haven’t been able to paint much, that’s all. It’s not a big deal, except I’ve got a big project due that happens to be a large chunk of my grade. I’ve stayed up late trying to come up with ideas, but nothing helps. I start something that I love, then lose all interest in it.”
It didn’t help that I’d been getting minimal sleep at night. There were times when that happened more often than not, and I’d cave and take a sleeping pill that Ripley prescribed me. Considering the bottle was nearly full, I didn’t do it often. I had hoped if I got a full night’s rest, I’d be inspired the next day. It didn’t happen, though. Instead, I felt the nagging feeling in my gut telling me to do anything but paint. Run. Bike. Dance until I sweat through my clothes. Whenever my mind conjured ways to exhaust itself, I had to pull back and remember why that wasn’t a good idea.
The soft hum that came from him had me turning to study his face. He looked off in the distance, his eyes seemingly following the running puppy. According to the vet I’d taken him to, Ramsay was only eight months old. Since I took him in, he’d gained a few much-needed pounds and had more energy than I knew what to do with. He was happy, though, so I was too.
“Did you talk to your professor about it?”
No, I hadn’t. I knew what Professor Ambrose would say. It was the same thing she told everybody. You’re blocked. But that didn’t help figure out why. What was causing me to lose the one thing I got to control? The one thing I was able to do to take my mind off everything else? I didn’t need to run, bike, dance, or exercise my thoughts away. I could do that with paint, and it was like my mind was setting me up to walk down the only other path I knew to take when I needed an escape.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he said.
“She would have told me to meditate or do yoga or something,” I grumbled, sitting up. I brushed some grass shavings off my arm. “Which, I am. I joined yoga again and it has relaxed me. I just need to find inspiration.”
“How can I help?”
His question shouldn’t have thrown me, but it did. I stared at him in all his genuine six-foot-five glory and acted like he’d never offered me help before. It was a ridiculous reaction considering all the times he’d done just that, but he limited those moment now.
“Uh…I’m not sure.”
Head cocking, he watched me carefully before his eyes went back to Ramsay. The dog was laying in the middle of the yard like he’d run himself right out of energy. Maybe he’d take a long nap so I could go home and try working on my project, which would equal hours of staring blankly at a canvas and screaming into a pillow afterward in defeat when the image that came into my head didn’t transfer onto the canvas.
It was always the same one. A ballerina whose body was too little, too brittle, too…dead.
“Come on.” He stood, offering me his hand again. That time, I took it. It was hesitant, but I was curious as to what he was doing.
I followed him inside, with Ramsay close behind us when Theo whistled for him and walked up the stairs to a room I hadn’t been in, in a long time. It looked like storage now, but once it had housed his ex-wife’s art collection from over the years.
“What are we doing in here?”
He ignored me and opened a closet, rifling through something before pulling out a covered canvas. Setting it against the wall, he carefully pulled the sheet off and stepped back. I stared at the colored lines and paint splattered piece with parted lips. My eyes went to the corner to see a signature. MM was etched into the bottom right, pinching my brows.
I hadn’t gone to many exhibits with her, but usually I knew which pieces she had in her collection because she let me study them. She loved an artist from further upstate, River Tucker, who I became obsessed with as well. It was how we bonded because I knew
