“That's not stupid. That's human.” He took a long drink, then studied me. “So the cabin thing with Cord… how did that go?”
I almost smiled at the redirect. Classic Ramon, knowing when to let heavy things breathe.
“It was intense. Good intense. He worked through the worst of it, learned some coping techniques.” I picked at the label on my beer bottle. “We talked. Really talked. About things that matter.”
“And?”
“And I think I'm in trouble.” The admission slipped out before I could stop it. “The thing you said about me getting attached to people who need healing? It's happening.” I took a sip of beer, letting the cold bitterness ground me. “At the cabin, it was like we were building something. Like maybe after I opened the gallery and he figured out his next steps, we could find a way to make it work.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm trapped here indefinitely while he's got several paths to choose from, all of them leading away from this place.” I gestured at the studio, The Ranch beyond. “How does that equation ever balance?”
“You could tell him what happened. Let him be part of the solution.”
“That's not who we are. I'm the one who helps, who provides the healing space. He's finally recovering, finally seeing possibilities. I'm not dragging him backward.”
“That's not your choice to make.”
“Isn't it?” I stood, needing to move. “He's got a surgery consultation Tuesday that could give him his career back. A coaching offer from Alabama. Real opportunities, not the disaster I'm facing.”
Ramon watched me pace. “You know what your problem is?”
“Besides my brother stealing my entire future?”
“You think love is about being equal. About bringing the same things to the table.” He set down his beer and stood too. “But maybe it's just about being present. Being real. Letting someone see you when you're not okay.”
“I don't know how to not be okay. Not with him. He needs—”
“What he needs is the truth. Not some perfect version of you that doesn't actually exist.”
“The truth is I have until October 28th to find two hundred thousand dollars.” I laughed, but it came out wrong, bitter and sharp. “Maybe I should start a GoFundMe. 'Help a sex worker escape to art dealing.'“
“That's not funny.”
“It's a little funny.” I moved to my office alcove, looking at the sketches and paintings covering the walls. My work from seven years, documenting my time here. “All of this was supposed to go in the gallery. Now it's just decoration.”
I pulled out my sketches from the cabin—Cord sleeping, reading, that peaceful expression when he meditated. In every drawing, he looked like someone discovering himself for the first time. In the margins, barely visible, were my own notes.Beautiful when unguarded. Stronger than he knows. Trust in his eyes.
“You're in love with him,” Ramon said, looking over my shoulder.
“Yeah.” No point denying it. “Completely smitten with someone whose world would implode if anyone found out he was dating a sex worker.”
“Ex-sex worker. You're leaving.”
“Was leaving. Now I'm here until... I don't even know. Years.”
Ramon was quiet for a moment. Then: “You could ask Vincent for a loan.”
“I'm not asking my boss for two hundred thousand dollars.”
“He'd probably do it. You know he would.”
I did know. Vincent and Ibrahim had been nothing but generous with me. But that generosity had limits, and I wasn't about to test them.
“I need to handle this myself,” I said. “That's what I do. I handle things.”
“No,” Ramon corrected. “You handle other people's things. Their pain, their problems, their healing. But your own stuff? You pretend it doesn't exist.”
