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Devonis propped up against a black leather headboard and wearing a just-tight-enough-to-be-distracting whiteT-shirt.Theinky black lines of his tattoos extend out from under his sleeves, and from memory,Ican visualize the intricate paths they trace over his biceps and down to his forearms.
Ican’t get distracted by tightT-shirts and sexy tattoos, though, because his gaze is sharp as it moves over my face. “Isyour dad okay?”
Ishould have known that would be his first guess. “Dad’sfine.Hesaw his cardiologist last month, and everything’s looking good.”
“Thenwhat is it,Shae?You’veobviously been crying.Tellme what’s wrong, orI’mbooking a flight so you can explain it to me in person.”
Asmuch asI’dlove a visit fromDevon—to be wrapped in his arms while he assures me everything’s going to be okay—Idon’t want him flying here over something so silly.Particularlysince he’s got to be exhausted after the tour.ButIdon’t have to tell him the complete truth.Theresults of my portfolio review, even thatIwas consideringapplyingto art school again, aren’t whatIwant to talk about right now.Notwhen the disappointment is so fresh.
ButIcan tell him the other thing. “Iwas fired.”
Devonsits up straight. “What?When?”
“Afew days ago.Thebar has new owners, and they want to bring in their own manager.Sothey let me go.”
Hiseyes narrow slightly. “I’msorry,Shae.Really.Butyou didn’t like that job anyway.Itwas supposed to be temporary, right?”
Heisn’t wrong.WhenIwas twenty-one and first took a job at the bar,Inever dreamedI’dstill be working there four years later.Itwas meant to be a placeholder job.Away to pay the rent.It’sfunny how something that’s supposed to be temporary can become a permanent part of your life so easily.Withoutwanting it or even noticing that it’s happened. “Yes.ButIwas hoping to leave on my own terms.WhenIhad something else lined up.”
WhenIactually knew whatIwanted to do with my life.
“Fairenough,” he says slowly. “Butisn’t this the perfect opportunity for you to move toLAand finally go to art school like you planned?Before…”Hetrails off, sympathy flitting across his face.
BeforeDad’sheart attack.
Ilet out a sigh. “Thatwas seven years ago.I’mnot in a position to move toLAanymore.”
Andconsidering the state of my portfolio,Idoubt any art school inLAwill want me.
“Yourdad’s healthy.You’rebetween jobs.Whatelse is keeping you there?”Hefrowns. “You’renot seeingPhillipagain, are you?”
Iforce myself not to flinch at the mention of my ex-boyfriend. “No, he doesn’t even live here anymore.”
“Thenwhy can’t you move?”
IknowDevonwell enough to know he won’t let this go until he drags the truth from me.Glancingat the now visible mess on the canvas in front of me,Iblow out a breath. “Actually,Iconsidered applying here.Butthe school offers a portfolio review before you even submit your application—to make sure you’re not wasting your time or theirs in applying—and,”Iinhale a shaky breath, “my paintings aren’t good enough.I’mnot good enough.AndifI’mnot good enough here,Iwon’t be good enough forLA.”
Imeet his gaze through the screen and shrink into myself a little at the hard set of his jaw.
“Firstof all,” he says, “why the hell is this the firstI’mhearing about you finally considering applying to art school again?Andsecond, how can they say your paintings aren’t good enough?Yourstuff is amazing.Italways has been.”
ButDevonhasn’t seen any of my recent paintings.TheonesIforced myself to paint over the last year asItried to get the lifeIonce dreamed of back on track.
EvenasIfrantically churned out canvas after canvas in an attempt to have enough decent examples for my portfolio,Iknew there was something missing.Ithought ifIcould just put brush to canvas, somehow the spark, the joy, would come back.Butso far, it hasn’t.MaybeIneed to admit to myself that the passion, the energy, and the inspiration that used to burn inside me are gone.
“Didthey give you any options?”Devonasks.
“Ihave to provide them better examples.Piecesthat are less derivative.Moreme.Whateverthat means.”
“Whynot pick some of your other paintings, then?”
Idon’t want to tell him that allIhave is whatI’vedone recently.Orexplain what happened to my other pieces.
“I’llprobably have to work on some new stuff.ButIdon’t know.MaybeI’mwasting my time.MaybeIshould just forget about making it as an artist and search for a decent, long-term job that pays the bills.”
“That’sridiculous.Thishas always been your dream.Idon’t see why you even need to go to art school, to be honest.Butif that’s what you want to do, why not start fresh?Getout of your comfort zone; show them exactly what you can do.”
Ilook away from his concerned expression.It’sexactly whatIexpected him to say.HeandBeauhave always been the kind of guys who decide they want something and get it done.That’show they managed to end up where they are.Afterall, how many people say they want to become famous rock stars and then actually go and do it?
