I nodded before remembering he couldn’t see me.
“Oh and, Xander?” he asked before I could disconnect the call.
“Yeah?”
“Try taking a shower, shaving, getting dressed. It will do wonders for your outlook.”
I glanced down at my shirt, wondering how he knew I was wearing my clothes from yesterday and I hadn’t shaved in a week. But I guessed that was part of being a twin. Before I could open my mouth to protest, he’d already said goodbye and ended the call. I sank down on the couch with a sigh.
Theo hadn’t said anything I didn’t already know. But hearing it from him made it harder to ignore the truth. Before the accident, my popularity as an artist had been on the rise. Now, everyone was waiting to see what I’d do next. Not because I was Alexander Kline, but because I was a curiosity—the famous artist who’d suffered an injury that crippled his ability to draw.
Could I back out of the exhibit? Sure.
But it would mean the end of my career, my dreams. And not just because it would tank my reputation with galleries. But because it would be admitting failure to myself. It would be accepting defeat.
I scrolled through my list of contacts, trying to see if the names inspired me in any way. Martine, Akira, Sasha, Else—all gorgeous. Some I’d slept with, some I hadn’t. None of whom I wanted to call. Our relationships had been superficial—hot, but shallow. I saw that now. Besides, I didn’t think any of them would be interested in a has-been.
I stared at the blank canvas a moment longer before deciding to take Theo’s advice. I’d start by cleaning my apartment and studio.
By the time I’d finished, I had to admit I did feel a little better. Or at least a little less pathetic. After that, I took a shower. And then, I checked my emails and organized my supplies. And after all that, I was out of excuses and decided that maybe I really should try painting something.
But again, when I stood before the canvas, my mind went blank. I was empty, void.
I imagined this was what not being able to get it up felt like. It was shitty and embarrassing and… I dug my fingers into my hair, letting out a frustrated groan. What the hell was wrong with me?
This had never happened before. Sure, my creativity would ebb and flow, but it had never stopped. It had never dried up like a tube of paint left in the hot sun too long.
I told myself I just had to draw one thing. One simple piece. Nothing major. Just a small canvas with a little bit of paint. It didn’t even have to look like an orange or a human hand or whatever. I mixed the paint, stood in front of the easel, and lifted my hand. The angle of my wrist was all wrong, but I tried to ignore it. There was nothing to be done. Despite months of physical therapy, my wrist simply didn’t have the range of motion I needed. It never would.
I took a deep breath, trying to relax myself. But every time I got close to the canvas, it was as if there were an invisible force field that kept me from actually touching it with the brush. I told my hand to paint, sent the message from my brain, yet…nothing happened. I peered down at my arm, but it looked like someone else’s. It was unfamiliar, weak, and uninspiring.
It was useless.
I flung the brush across the room before sweeping the canvas and paint from the easel. A glass filled with water went flying, shattering against the concrete floor, much like my wrist had. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath coming in pants as I sank to the floor. I felt as broken and irreparable as that glass.
I had six weeks until the exhibit, and they were expecting to see over twenty paintings. Twenty original Alexander Kline paintings.Twenty. And I currently had less than half that amount.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Chapter Two
“You ready for this?” Hunter asked as we walked up the path to the front door.
Was I ready? Hmm. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to tell my parents I’d dropped out of one of the top premed programs in the nation to pursue a career in art. I could already imagine the disappointment, the guilt. Probably because I’d been struggling with it for the past few weeks.
At first, I’d told myself I was just going to apply to see if I could even get in.
Then, when I got in, I figured I’d accept so I wouldn’t lose my spot.
And it snowballed from there with each new lie I told myself, until I was missing my biology lab to attend life drawing, skipping organic chemistry to practice sculpture. Now, it was a few weeks into the semester, and I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up the act. The add/drop period would end soon and, with it, my chances of dropping my premed classes without penalty, without a permanent stain on my transcript.
Still, I’d do anything to continue my education at Los Angeles College of Art and Design. The classes were everything I’d dreamed of, and I’d never been happier. While also simultaneously being miserable. Because I’d promised myself I’d tell my family by now, but every time I tried… Well, I found some excuse.
“Kate?” Hunter turned to me as we reached the porch, and I realized he was looking at me with concern. He didn’t know about my double life; he was merely asking if I was ready to endure the torture that was family dinner with our parents.
I glanced up at him, telling myself I needed to get my head in gear. I just needed to rip off the Band-Aid and tell my parents the truth. But I didn’t know if I could. Hunter had his MBA and was the CEO of a successful company he’d started. And our older sister, Lily, was not only married to a man my parents adored, but also a divorce attorney to the stars. It was… There was a lot of pressure. A lot of expectation to live up to the family name.
Hunter placed a hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to the present. “Hey, are you okay?”
