Page 37 of Break Me Beautifully
"It's just a rental," he says, chuckling. "But yes. This is your own space to do your art for the gallery. It has everything you need, and it's an easy walk from my place." He jingles a key at me. "Go on."
My hand snatches the key, cradling it in disbelief. The rush of emotion is too much, I have to get it out, channel it. Throwing my arms around Marshall, I hug him while laughing. "Thank you! This is amazing!"
His arms don't circle me back, he's holding them out to the sides, hesitating to embrace me. I slip away, leaving him standing there awkwardly. Adjusting the collar of his heavy jacket, he clears his throat. "It's nothing. I'm sure you had a nicer studio back home."
"Hardly," I laugh. "My mother and father never supported my artistic dreams. That's why I was surprised you offered to take me on."
He squints at me in disbelief. "Your estate is massive, there had to be a room for you to work in."
"Rooms? Plenty." Hooking my fingers behind my back, I turn away, wandering in a circle as I study the dirty windows in the ceiling. "It wasn't about what was available. My parents are ruthless. Money is all they care about. That's why it never mattered how much I begged them to let me go to art school, or to give me a single room to use as my own studio to show I was worth taking a chance on."
"You're twenty years old. Why not just move out, sign up for classes without their permission?"
"And how would I do that?" I ask with a dry chuckle. "I don't have my own money. I couldn't afford college, and getting a loan is impossible. Any bank that runs my family name will know my parents are rich. Financial aid is a pipe dream."
"You still could have tried."
His curt observation twists a knife in my gut. I glare at him over my shoulder. "What, you think I could run off without a penny and survive? Who could make it on the street with nothing?"
"I did it," he says somberly.
"What?" I face him fully, hands drifting to my sides. "Marshall, what do you mean?"
"I told you, my father died when I was your age." Shrugging like it's the most normal topic, he tucks his arms into a knot over his wide chest. "I did what I had to survive. But then, I didn't have a choice."
My mouth drops open. "I didn't mean ... you make it sound like I never tried."
"Because you didn't."
"How dare you?" I snap, storming forward until we're toe to toe. "Do you have any idea how much I suffered living in my house? My parents ignored me whenever they could, and that was thebestpart of my childhood! The second they started telling me what I had to do, how to do it, what my future was going to be no matter what I wanted, I wished I was back to being invisible!"
"It couldn't have been so bad if you stayed, Leona."
"Are you crazy! I would have died on the streets! I'm not that strong, I'm not like you."
He shakes his head, staring me down with furious storm clouds in his eyes. "You don't know how strong you really are. No one does until they're forced to choose between living or dying."
"Is that what you did?"
His mouth straightens, the scar tugging until it changes from a curve to a brittle line that could snap in two. "Yes. That's exactly what I did. What I still do."
Swallowing loudly, I lift my hand, my fingertips grazing his lips. "How did this scar happen?"
Marshall snatches my wrist, pulling my hand away but not releasing me. "You don't want to know."
"I do," I insist.
"Doesn't matter." Letting go of me he walks towards the far wall, checking his phone with his head hanging low. I can see his stern expression and it makes my heart twinge.
I do want to know,I think in frustration. But my sympathy is stronger. I don't want to force him to share something he isn't ready to. "What now?" I ask warily.
"Now you get to work." He points at the paint without looking away from his phone. "I'll be back later. If you decide to go to my place before I show up, let yourself in with the spare key."
"Where are you going?"
Marshall puts his phone away. There's a moment where I think, or hope, that he'll tell me the truth. Even a sliver of information would soothe my aching heart. I hate this thing we're doing, this dance where I don't know all the steps and he refuses to show me.
"Leona," he says, my name fascinating on his tongue.
