Chapter 4

I looked down at my apron, streaked with paint, and shook my brush with a resigned little laugh.

Forget it. We were never the same kind of people to begin with. Whatever pointless message she'd sent, I could just ignore it.

Remembering the last time she'd bombarded my phone with messages, I worried she might start calling again if she didn't see me spiraling in response. Luckily, I didn't have many friends, and even fewer people I actually needed to keep in touch with, so I turned my phone off entirely and threw myself into my work.

Time always moved fast when I was focused. When I finally heard the door slam outside, I looked up and realized it was already one in the morning.

Crystal stumbled into the room, drunk, her heels dangling from one hand, reeking of alcohol. I couldn't help frowning.

"Why didn't you answer my calls? Why didn't you call me back?" There was an edge of accusation in her voice.

I turned my canvas aside, intending to walk her back out of the room. Instead, Crystal suddenly flared up. She tipped her chin up, eyes rimmed red, glaring at me.

"How long do you plan on sulking? This isn't the first time this has happened. It always sorts itself out by the next day, doesn't it?"

I studied her eyes, trying to read what she was actually feeling. I failed, obviously.

Once, she'd gone on a business trip to the country where Luke lived.

Out of sheer insecurity, I'd called her every single day despite the five-hour time difference, sharing every detail of my day, until I'd practically given myself a nervous breakdown over it. In the end, all I got for it was her accusing me of being needy and controlling.

I brought all of that back up now, and she froze against the dining chair where I'd sat her down. Caught off guard by her own history, she couldn't find anything to say.

I didn't know whether to stay or leave, so I ended up pouring myself a glass of water just to cover the awkwardness.

Crystal watched me do it, her own hand frozen halfway toward the glass, before she finally, awkwardly, drew it back.

"Luke and I are just childhood friends. He fell out with his parents. I'm the only one he has to lean on."

"I know."

"Then why are you still acting like this?"

I sighed and flexed my stiff fingers. "Crystal, you don't need to explain yourself to me. Get some rest."

With that halfhearted attempt at comfort out of the way, I set down my glass, gave her a polite nod, and went back to the study.

I'd been sleeping alone in the study for days now, between the painting and the fighting. It was cramped, but at least it was quiet and out of the way.

I hadn't been shut in there for long before Crystal pushed the door open again. "I don't feel well. Collin, come sleep with me."

I checked my watch, then glanced at my unfinished painting, and shook my head. "You're just drunk. Drink some water and take something for the hangover."

Her face flushed with humiliated anger at my rejection. She stood there facing me down for a few seconds, then took a few sharp breaths and stormed off.

Moving abroad wasn't a small decision. I was nervous telling my parents about it, especially since most people around me already couldn't understand why I'd walk away from someone like Crystal, rich, beautiful, well-connected, to go be a broke painter instead.

To my surprise, my father went quiet on the other end of the line for a moment before he finally asked, "Have you thought this through?"

"Yeah. This is my dream. I won't regret it."

"All right. Your mother and I are behind you."

It was the first thing anyone had said to support me in days, and it caught me off guard enough that my eyes stung.

That's how it works sometimes. You can take all the hurt and mistreatment in stride without feeling much of anything, and then the moment someone actually stands behind you, you end up in tears.

I asked myself sometimes whether I'd regret walking away from six years of my life like this. But no matter how many times I turned it over, I always landed on the same answer: I didn't regret it.

Some things, once you've missed them, stay missed. Some people, if they're not worth it, are simply not worth it.

Professor Baker got back to me too. He said my work during my college years had left a real impression on him, and after looking through my résumé and portfolio, he was willing to give me this chance, on the condition that I bring in a new, original centerpiece of my own.

It matched almost exactly what my old professor had told me. Reading the email, I couldn't help letting out a long breath.

Professor Baker's studio hadn't given me much time to work with. For someone who'd put down his brush for six years, that wasn't an easy ask. But I'd already gotten a head start in preparation, so I felt confident I could pull it off.

Just as I was feeling good about heading home to keep working on my piece, I noticed the study door standing open. A pair of heels by the door and a shifting shadow inside sent a bad feeling crawling up my spine. I didn't even stop to put my things down, just hurried over and pushed the half-open door wide.

Crystal stood inside, her eyes rimmed red, staring at my unfinished painting. When she heard me come in, she turned to face me. "What's this about you going abroad? I want a real explanation."

Her voice shook, her eyes brimming with a mix of fury and grief.