“Nothing,” I said, which was the truth. There was absolutely nothing churning in my mind. Nothing I felt inspired to create.
“Why don’t you meditate or something? Go surfing. Try to find some way to channel your inner muse?”
“Muse?” I barked out a laugh. “You know I don’t believe in muses.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just…” I could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re running out of time. So, either do whatever you need to do to make it happen, or we’re going to have to pull out of the exhibit. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
What more was there to say? I didn’t want to pull out of the exhibit and admit complete and total failure. But if I didn’t start painting soon, that was exactly what would happen.
My chest tightened, and it felt as if the walls of my studio were caving in on me. I felt trapped. Suffocated. Crushed by the weight of expectations.
“Look—” His voice softened. “Maybe you should consider it. Maybe this is just too much to expect so soon after your accident.”
I gnashed my teeth. “It’s been five months. But who’s counting.”
“I know,” he sighed. “It’s been a long road, but you’re nearly at the end of it. Don’t give up now.”
“I’m not.” I tightened my grip on the phone, even as I was losing touch with reality. “I just feel so uninspired.”
Uninspired and out of control. I’d never felt more out of touch with my art, with myself. Which was why I’d finally agreed to take an adjunct teaching position with the Los Angeles College of Art and Design.
Theo had thought it would be a good way to stay connected to art and earn some money. But it only served as a painful reminder of what I couldn’t do. What I’d been able to do up until the accident.
I rubbed a hand over my face, wondering if I’d ever regain full range of motion in my wrist. The doctor said it was possible but highly unlikely. Which meant…I would never paint the same again.
I hadn’t really admitted the truth of that to myself until recently. Until I’d actually tried picking up a brush or a pencil to draw again. My style was different, and precision work… I shook my head. Well, I could forget about it.
Finally, Theo said, “Why don’t you call Martine? She always seems toinspireyou.”
I paced the concrete, enjoying the sensation of the cool, hard material beneath my bare feet. Martine had modeled for me many times in the past. And, yes, sometimes the modeling led to sex. When clothes were removed, lines blurred; it wasn’t uncommon. But I was always very clear about what women were getting into with me. I didn’t do relationships. I didn’t have the energy or desire to fully devote myself to anything but art. Or at least, I hadn’t before. Now, I didn’t even have the energy for art.
“Or Akira,” he suggested. She was beautiful, but I just wasn’t feeling it.
“I’m not in the mood for Martine or Akira,” I sighed.
“Then open up your little black book and call someone else.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t have a little black book. That’s so nineties.”
“I don’t know what more to do,” he said, ignoring my comment. “Do you—” He hesitated, his voice quiet. “Do you want to talk to someone—a therapist?”
I used my free hand to massage my temple. We’d already discussed this. “No. I’ll get it together. I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay. Just remember, you don’t have to do this alone.”
I chuckled darkly. “Are you going to paint for me?”
My twin was talented at many things, but painting wasn’t one of them. It was actually one of the few things he wasn’t good at. Which was part of the reason I loved it, clung to it.
He was silent for a moment. “You know what I mean, Xander.” I could hear the disappointment in his tone. “And, no. I’m not going to paint for you. I’m the left brain, you’re the right, remember?”
Theo was organized, rational, caring. I was… I wasn’t sure what I was. At least, not without my art. I’d always defined myself in terms of it, feeling like it distinguished me from Theo. Set me apart, when he had everything else.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
I heard him talking to someone in the background before he returned his attention to me. “I have to go. Keep me updated.”
