“I married him anyway and he told them where to go. Because some things are worth fighting for.” She pauses. “Your grandfather didn’t let anybody control him.”
“I don’t want to hurt her,” I say softly.
“Then don’t. But pushing her away because you’re scared? Or letting her pushyouaway without a fight? That’s just cowardice.”
I don’t answer. Just flip open a book I’m not going to read. My sketchbook sits beside me, full ofher. No matter how many times I try to draw something else—anything else—it always comes back to Tara.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Gran makes a sound like she already knows I’m full of shit. “You’re an artist, aren’t you?”
I blink. I can’t believe she remembers. The last piece I must have shown her was over a decade ago, before I started hiding it away from the world.
“Thenshow her.”
When we hang up, I just sit there. Staring at the pages, at every version of her I’ve sketched without meaning to.
Tara, biting her lip in concentration, completely lost in her work. Tara, laughing too loudly, always on the verge of causing trouble. Tara, asleep at my desk, the kind of peaceful that makes something in my ribs crack wide open.
And then it hits me.Fuck.
I love her.
Not in the clean, careful way Spencer men are supposed to love. Not like my parents’ cold, strategic arrangement or Drake’s effortless ease. This isn’t effortless. It’s fucking terrifying.
She’s chaos. She’s every color I never knew I wanted. She makes mewant.
And I’ve been so afraid of wrecking it that I might have already let it slip through my fingers.
I grab my phone, ready to call her, to tell her everything. But words aren’t enough. She deservesmore. She deserves something real. Something that lasts.
My gaze flicks to the blank page in front of me.
I pick up my pencil.
I don’t start with her face, though I know every angle by heart. I start with her hands—paint-stained and reckless, always reaching, always creating. Then the tilt of her head, like she’s seeing the world in a way the rest of us never will. And finally, I sketch her eyes. Wide open. Fearless.
A girl reaching for something just out of grasp.Not afraid of falling. Not afraid of fire. Just brave enough to try.
I draw until my fingers ache, until the sun rises, until she’s there in front of me in black and white.
Because Gran’s right.
Some things are worth risking yourself for.
And Tara Hawkins is one of them.
“Hey!I was totally winning that round!”
Ethan’s shout from downstairs snaps me out of my haze. I’ve been at this for hours, stopping only when my pencil snapped and I realized my sharpener was at home.
With a sigh, I set the pencil down, flexing my cramped fingers. Graphite stains smudge my skin.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since... This morning? It’s now 9 PM, I should probably raid Troy’s meal-prep containers - he always makes extra and lets us steal it.
The living room is a cave of empty energy drink cans and discarded pizza boxes. Ethan and Freddie are sprawled across the couch, deep in what appears to be hour twelve of their gaming marathon. Freddie’s stubble has reached mountain-man territory, and Ethan’s strawberry blonde hair is defying gravity in impressive ways.
“Jesus, you two need sleep,” I mutter, navigating the debris field to reach the fridge.
