Page 9 of Rush

He blinks slowly and exhales a harsh breath. “What is it?” His voice is irritated.

“I just wanted to ask…could you not mention this to my dad…that you saw me in here—”

“Without your top on.”

My face heats. “Yes. It’s just…I…” How do I say this? “It’s just that I…” Don’t want to disappoint him again.

“I won’t say anything,” he growls and then turns back to his station. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He huffs out a brittle laugh, shaking his head, and I feel like I’m missing something.

I want to ask why he’s so pissed off by me. But I’m too chickenshit to do it.

So, I once again keep my mouth shut and head for the door.

“Arianna.”

I stop and glance back over my shoulder. He’s facing me now, the same stoic expression on his countenance.

“What?” I say.

“I want the shirt back tomorrow. Clean.”

Something in the way he says clean pokes at me.

He thinks I’m a dirty drunk.

I inhale through my nose.

I am not that person anymore.

I’m clean and sober.

And I don’t need his stupid shirt. I’d rather walk around with my boobs on show than wear his clothes.

I lift my chin and walk back over to him.

When I’m a foot away, I toss the shirt back to him. He catches it with a single hand, eyes not moving from mine.

“Turns out, I don’t need to borrow your shirt after all.” Then, I spin around and walk out of there.

I step inside my apartment and close the door behind me, locking it.

I cast a glance toward the corner of my room where my paints and easel are set up. I stare at the blank canvas sitting there, on the easel, praying that I’ll feel something. Anything. Even a spark of interest or inspiration would be a start. I’d be grateful for that.

But nothing.

I haven’t painted in six months.

Not since I’ve been sober.

Painting is all I’ve ever known. All I’ve ever done.

I’m an artist who can’t paint.

It feels like I’ve lost a limb.