I close my eyes for a single breath. And he’s here. I can smell that faint mix of cologne, smoke, and ocean air. I feel the warmth of his palm against my cheek, the roughness of his thumb when he’d tilt my face toward his. His voice murmurs against my ear, like I was the only thing in the world that ever made sense to him other than his music.
My throat closes.
The brush moves blindly, guided by memory instead of sight. I open my eyes, and everything blurs. Paint. Tears. Light. Color melting into colors. It’s all the same now.
The music swells, and my sobs tangle into it. I press the brush to the canvas one last time, letting the final stroke land wherever it wants. When I finally step back, my hands are sticky, and my face is wet.
But the canvas is alive.
Just like we were. Just like we still are, somewhere underneath all this ruin.
Chapter eleven
JUDE GRAVES
Micah’s snoring softly across the hotel room in Portland, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. The blackout curtains are drawn, but a thin line of gray light leaks through the edge and cuts across the floorboards. I’ve been staring at it for an hour. Maybe more. My head’s pounding, and my chest feels almost…empty. The high is gone, and all that’s left is the crash.
I can still smell Adriana’s sweet yet rotten scent on me. My skin crawls where she touched me. I want to fucking peel it off.
I turn my face toward the ceiling and try not to think. But I always end up back there—twenty years old, stupid, hungry for a shot. Nolan had said, “Welcome to your new life, kid.”
And that was it. The end of one life. The start of another.
Since then, I’ve done things I can’t say out loud. People I’ve taken out because Nolan snapped his fingers. I used to throw up afterward. Now I don’t feel a damn thing. Sometimes, when it’s bad...when I’m angry enough, I even like it. At least then I’m in control ofsomething.
Adriana still uses me. Always has.
When I tell her no, Nolan makes me regret it. Locks me in a room and lets me go through hell without a fix. He’ll tell me how crazy I am for not fucking her since he loves to. I’ll sweat it out, writhe in pain, and want to die. It’s a pain I do everything I can to avoid. So I just fuck her.
I’ve wanted to run so many times. But where would I go? Every dollar I’ve ever made runs through them. Every stage I’ve stood on, every crowd that screamed my name—it’s all his. Nolan built the cage around me, and I helped nail it shut when I let myself get hooked on the drugs and kill for him. Now I just want it all to stop. I’m tired in ways sleep doesn’t fix. I don’t care if I die. I probably should’ve already.
Emma slips into my mind again. The way she looked at me last night made me nauseous. She deserves the kind of life I can’t even rememberwanting. Seven years is a long goddamn time to live in darkness.
Micah shifts in his sleep, mumbling something under his breath. I stare at the ceiling again, my heartbeat slow and heavy in my throat. This fucking heart that keeps trying to die but won’t.
The piece of shit.
Micah and I wander the streets of Seaside later that day, the Sunday quiet settling over the town. I pull out my phone and search for her studio, fingers trembling slightly. Last year, in a moment of weakness I’d never admit to anyone, I looked her up. Dug around to see what she’d done with her life. She’d started working at an art therapy studio, just like she said she wanted. I was so proud it made my chest hurt.
I...I had to see her again.
We round another corner in silence, the oxy keeping my body from getting sick. I freeze when I seeThe Quiet Canvas. Her sanctuary. My pulse spikes. It’s Sunday, so she’s probably not here, but I walk closer anyway. Micah follows silently. My boots scuff the sidewalk, and music blares through the window, too muffled to recognize. And then I see her.
She’s inside, painting with her back to me. My body goes rigid. My heart slams into a thousand beats per minute. Then herhead drops into her hands, shoulders shaking.
She’s...crying.
“Jude…” Micah’s voice is soft and careful. “That’s her?”
The words lodge in my throat. When I finally speak, my voice is hoarse. “Yeah. That’s her. The one from Portland the other night.”
He doesn’t say anything. He understands. He’s known me long enough to recognize the parts of me I tried to bury. I just watchher. She sets the brush down, curls into the chair, and more tears spill free. My chest tightens. A single drop slides down my cheek, and I don’t stop it.
What the fuck have I done?
I could have at least saidsomethingto her. Instead, I’d stared through her like a fucking asshole. I swallow hard as my eyes land on the painting she was working on.
A dock under a night sky. A guitar lying abandoned on the planks.