“Maybe.” His tone shifts, determination hardening his features. “But Cillian, I won't let him pull you under.”
Michael had kept me afloat more than a few times over the years. Hell, he was the sole reason I hadn't spent the last decade in a wooden box, written off as a statistic. I couldn't blame him for being a bit overprotective.
He continues, “And I won't let him put anyone else at risk either. One more night like tonight and I'm bringing in Dad to make the call.” We ran things for the most part, but Dad was still the final call if we needed him to be.
“Fine.” I throw back the rest of my whiskey.
We finish closing, and rather than follow Michael’s taillights from the parking lot, I sit in my dark car. With the engine off, the most distinct sound is my breathing, the world outside muffled and far away.
Placing one hand on my stomach and the other on my chest, I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, focusing on the feeling of the air in my lungs and the movement of my body. I do the same on the exhale and repeat until the warm air in the car feels uncomfortable.
I can’t say I feel better, but perhaps a bit more settled in my body. Given the pain in my thigh, I’m not sure if I appreciate that. I fish around my bag for my cigarettes. The irony of doing that after a breathing exercise isn’t lost on me. But what had Toni said about vices and functioning? If the worst things I put in my body were nicotine and whiskey, I had improved greatly.
Before I find the familiar rectangular box, a rolled-up piece of paper teases my fingertips.
I unravel it, revealing a sketch of the view from the bridge, Toni's signature scribbled at the bottom. She must've done it on the quiet last leg of our ride back and slipped it in when I wasn't paying attention.
If I didn't know it was something she did quickly, I wouldn't believe it. All the life and texture were there in graphite. With just her pencil, she managed to capture the unnamable spark I felt in that place.
Looking at it, for just a moment, I feel grounded.
CHAPTER 12
Toni
Art supply storesshould be required to post warning signs on the door:Contents may cause absolute loss of self-control. Enter at your own risk.
I'd already deposited a stack of canvas and a travel easel at the counter, and my hand basket was dangerously heavy.
Over the past week, I'd burned through the scraps of paint and canvas I brought with me. To be fair, that didn’t account for much. They were the dregs left over from my time with David.
A total restock was necessary. But did I really need the gold leaf?
I toss it in.
With each year I spent with David, I found myself creating less and less. Never replenishing things when I ran out, or him insisting I get rid of them. Reducing my footprint bit by bit to make space for...What? His rowing machine?
I also put copper leaf in my basket.
“Wow. Cheating on me, I see.” Jac, the barista I’d become friendly with over the last few weeks, takes a long sip from aniced drink, the logo of a different local coffee shop matching the one in my hand.
“Didn't realize we were in a monogamous situation.”
They laugh. “I would never! Not that I'm yucking anyone's yum.”
“Of course.”
“What'cha got going on here?” They peek into my basket.
I hold up my spoils, letting them paw through the contents. “A hefty credit card payment.”
“Do you have a project you're working on or just in it for the vibes?” It's a fair question given there's a bit of everything shoved in there. Watercolors and oils and gouache and brushes and charcoal...and...and...and...
“Both? I've always gravitated to whatever felt right for a piece rather than sticking to one medium.” One of the reasons I didn't major in visual arts. The other was that I didn't have a trust fund to fall back on.
They nod. “Can't wait to see where this ends up.” They hold up the gold leaf. “I'm a slut for shiny things.”
“Once I know, I’ll update you.”
