But I didn’t ask. Shiloh gave, and like the greedy little bastard I am, I’ve been sucking it up like a sponge. And it will never be enough, I know that now. I could sleep here every night, wake up every morning to sleepy lovemaking and stale kisses, have dinner on the patio, and hold his hand when we go hiking. I could have all of that and more and still never feel satisfied.
Downstairs, I consider stopping for a snack in the kitchen before simply passing by and opening the back door. I don’t want food; I want to drown myself in the ocean. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I click Daniel’s name and listen to it ring. I’m supposed to call him first whenever I start feeling maudlin, therapist second if shit has really gotten out of hand.
“Hey, kid,” he answers, voice muffled as if he’s still bringing the phone up to his ear.
“I’m quitting,” I announce. Daniel sighs.
“You already quit yesterday,” he reminds me. “It starts to lose its meaning when you do it every five minutes.”
“I’m not joking this time. I think I’m done. I don’t have any creativity! The muse has fucking left me, and she took my goddamn talent with her. Everything I do sucks!”
Striding toward the edge of the water, I pass a rock and consider kicking it just to really drive home the petulant child routine. I abstain, but it’s a close thing. Maybe I’ll hit it on the way back to the house.
“Okay. Resignation granted. What are you going to do instead?”
I pause, scrunching up my face in a scowl. That fucker.
“You’re supposed to talk me out of it. Whisper sweet things in my ear, butter me up a little bit.”
“My rates have gone up, and you don’t pay me enough for that,” he replies. I laugh, reaching the waterline and allowing myself the treat of kicking a rock into the water. Not quite as satisfying as I’d hoped.
“I’m really frustrated,” I admit, standing far enough back that the water doesn’t lap at my shoes, but close enough that the only thing for miles in front of me is ocean. “I’m tired of this.”
“I know, kid. But you’re making things harder on yourself. The more you worry, the harder it’s going to be to get anything done. Give yourself room to breathe, for Pete’s sake.”
“I think I need to go back on the anxiety medication.”
“No,” Daniel says sharply. “Your depression got out of control when you were on that garbage. No, Ewan.”
“There are other brands I could try. Other types.”
“No drugs. It didn’t work for you, and it became dangerous to try.” His voice is hard, the tone one that I rarely hear fromhim. Daniel is so much like a parent, I’ve occasionally had the errant thought about how much I’d have liked to have him as a father growing up. He’d be good at it.
Sitting down, I try to find a comfortable spot on the rocky ground, bringing my knees up and leaning my forearms across them. Tipping my head back, I gently roll it from side to side, trying to convince my neck to relax.
“Ewan,” Daniel says when I’ve been silent for too long.
“I want to paint,” I tell him. He’ll know what I mean.
“Stop pushing it.”
“You’re the one who sent up the supplies.” I almost growl the words, trying to work up a little anger. Anger is such a healthy, satisfying emotion when compared to despondency and fear and pain.
“Yes. For you to havefun. That’s the problem. You’ve somehow gotten it into your head that painting is your job and not something you can enjoy.”
“Itismy job!” And isn’t that the fucking pits. This is why people warn you away from a job in the arts—if you lose your ability to create, you have nothing left.
“Stop it,” he snaps. He’s so much better at anger than I am. “This is what you do—you hyperfocus on one thing and let it spiral out of control.Stop. Take a breath. You have more than enough money to keep yourself solvent for years without working. Hell, decades, probably, with your active investments. We could rent out your place in LA for some passive income if you needed it.”
My face flushes. Talking about money always embarrassesme. Daniel has a better idea than most of what my financials look like, and the knowledge never fails to fill me with a touch of shame. He’s such a good guy, he deserves to be rich more than I do.
“It’s not about the money,” I mumble. And it’s not. I don’t spend frivolously, and I do have a solid investment portfolio, thanks to Daniel.
“Okay, then explain to me why you keep referring to painting as your job, then? The point of a job is to earn a paycheck. You don’t need a paycheck, ergo, you don’t need a job.”
I frown. I love watching Daniel use logic against other people. Not so much when it’s me on the receiving end.
“I want to paint,” I repeat. “And you said you’ve got collectors reaching out, wanting to know if anything is?—”
