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Stopping abruptly, he ground his molars together in frustration as the accusation repeated in his head. He fucking hated when people were right about stuff that made him feel like shit. Mae. His dad.
Closing his eyes, he let his head hang. Was he going to run, or stay? Man up, or be a chicken shit? The thought of his family behind him viewing his work made his pulse trip like crazy. Would he finally measure up to their high expectations, or would he end up the failure he’d always feared.
“If they don’t like them, so what? You’re not painting for them, are you?”
More of Mae’s words hounding his memory. His answer was the same now as it was when she’d first asked the question about Brennan and his interior designer. He didn’t paint for anyone but himself. And if all the people here tonight hated what was hanging on the walls, would he feel different about what he’d created? What he’d put a piece of his soul into?
No.
Would he pack away his brushes and never paint again?
Hell no.
He dropped his chin to his chest. Why the fuck did Mae’s words from a month ago suddenly make sense at the most inconvenient time?
Because you’re not running.
Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, he lifted his head and squared his shoulders while blowing it back out. When he turned back to the gallery, he found himself face to face with his three older siblings.
“Hey, Mer,” Loyal greeted.
“Dad and Mom are here,” Celia warned in a low voice.
“I saw.”
“Honor didn’t even know Mae was this into art, so do you know what’s up with the invite to all of us?” Asher asked.
“She dragged me here, too,” Merit replied evasively, unable to keep the resentment from his voice.
Coward.
He looked away from their scrutiny and spotted his mom approaching Claudia on the other side of the room. His father stood a little distance away, studying his rendition of the Washington Monument.
Rip off the fucking Band-Aid.
“I’ll be right back,” he told his siblings.
As he threaded through the crowd and around the cocktail tables, Honor met him at the halfway point. “I saw Mae when we first got here. Where’d she go?”
“In the back.”
Her eyes narrowed at his clipped response, but he didn’t wait for her to ask more questions before continuing on his way. He wasn’t ready to talk about Mae just yet. He wasn’t ready to do any of this yet, but she hadn’t given him a choice.
As he walked up behind his father, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Dad.”
The senator twisted slightly to meet his gaze, then faced forward once more. “Merit.”
When silence fell between them, he forced himself to ask, “What do you think?”
“Of the painting? Or the fact you’ve been avoiding me for the past four months.”
His dad’s voice matched Merit’s low tone. The senator wouldn’t want to cause a scene, after all. “Of the painting.”
“Perfect. We’ll just ignore what we really need to talk about.”
He grit his teeth against his impatience. “Do you like it or not, Dad?”
“What do you care about what I think of this painting?”
