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I stare at the car in front of me, but all I see is the arch of Whitley’s back when she laughed, the way her eyes went golden when she told a joke just for me. The way her lips tasted like berries and champagne. The way her body melted under my hands, soft and alive and fucking radiant.

I didn’t just let her go. I ran from her like a goddamn coward.

I grip the open hood, the metal biting into my palms. I can’t get her out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, I see her on her knees in front of me, eyes wide, mouth soft, begging for more. The image in my mind is so vivid my cock twitches behind the zipper of my jeans, heat flooding low.

I tried to convince myself it was just lust. Just the thrill of being with her for those wild, breathless hours. But it’s more than that. It’s the way she lit up when I let my guard down. The way she held onto every word, every touch, every scar.

I deserve the discomfort spreading through my chest. Deserve the way her absence settles over everything. I let her in just far enough to want more, then shut the door before she could see how deep the damage really goes.

That’s on me.

nineteen

. . .

Whitley

I’ve been pacing my condo, fidgeting with the hem of my sweater and tapping my foot against the floor, trying not to lose my mind. It’s not like I want to miss him. I don’t. That’s the whole point, right? He’s exactly the kind of man I’m supposed to stay the hell away from. Stubborn. Cold. Closed off. That’s his thing.

It’s stupid. Ridiculous. Why am I even thinking about him? What kind of masochist am I?

The problem is, I can’t just unfeel the way he held me. The way he kissed me. The way his warmth snuffed out my cold.

I throw myself onto the couch, bury my face in a pillow, and scream into it.

It doesn’t help. But I know what will.

I shove off the couch and pad down the hallway to what used to be Violet’s bedroom. Now it’s my art studio. The walls are painted in swatches of colors I can’t commit to, and I’ve got canvases stacked against every wall, tubes of paint scattered across the drafting table, and mason jars full of brushes.

This is where I come when my brain won’t shut up. When the words in my head get too loud and the only way to quiet them is to smear something pretty across a blank surface.

I flick on the overhead light I splurged on that mimics natural sunlight and grab a fresh canvas. My first stroke is angry. Deep, furious red slashed across the white like a wound. I don’t think about what I’m painting. I just move my arm, let the brush do whatever the hell it wants, and for a while, the only sound in the room is the soft scratch of bristles.

Next, I grab another brush and load it with midnight blue, dragging it across the top. The splash of color smears into the red until it becomes something bruised and beautiful.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I ignore it. It’s probably Harper checking in, or Violet wanting wedding photos. I’ll get to them later.

The brush moves almost on its own, my hand guided by something deeper than thought. This is what I do. This is who I am when it’s just me and the paint and the mess I’m making.

Minutes or hours pass, I’m not sure which. I lose all sense of time. The painting becomes more abstract as my emotions shift. The angry splashes of red turns to dark shades of purple, but there’s something wrong with it. Something is missing. I stare at it, head tilted, trying to figure out what’s bothering me.

Then it hits me. There’s no light. Just darkness and turmoil without relief.

I add some gold, letting it bleed into the purple like hope trying to break through a storm. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s exactly how I feel—a disaster of color and emotion that doesn’t make sense to anyone but me.

I finally take a step back and look at the canvas. It’s not bad. Not great either, but it’s honest.

My phone buzzes again. I wipe my hands on my already ruined jeans and dig it out.

I blink at the screen, my paint-smeared thumb hovering over the notification.

It’s an email from the local community center with the subject line: Nomination for Community Honor Award.

I pause, reading the first few lines.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been nominated for the annual Community Honor Award, recognizing your outstanding contributions to the local area through your work…

My heart skips a beat as I read the email again, the words blurring for a second before my brain catches up with what it’s actually saying.