His lips are right there. So damn close.
I don’t answer because when my mouth opens, I lose my words, and all I can muster is, “Mmmhmm.”
For one glorious second, I swear he’s about to meet me halfway. But then— “Whoa.” He jerks back, his hand dropping from my waist like I just burned him.
The rejection slams into me like a gut punch.
“I-I,” he stammers, his eyes darting around the room. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“No, no, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” I cover my mouth to hide the way my wobbly voice betrays me.
His expression eases, but that only makes it worse. There’s pity in his eyes now, and I’d rather he hated me than look at me like that. Like I’m fragile.
He shakes his head, sighing. “Look, I get it. But I’m the last thing you need.”
The words hit harder than they should.
No one wants someone who’s broken.
I shake my head, blinking hard against the sting at the back of my eyes. “I was just—” I swallow, stepping back. “Never mind. I’m heading out.”
“Wait—” He starts to say something, but I don’t let him finish.
I walk off, discarding my drink, forcing my steps to stay balanced, even though the ground feels a little too wobbly beneath me. I have to focus on one foot, then the other, ignoring the burning in my chest, and the humiliating fact that I just made a complete fool of myself. Because, of course it had to be my brother’s best friend. The one guy I was never supposed to want… let alone try to kiss.
Chapter 1
Karley
6monthslater
I exhale loudly as the crowd on the Manhattan sidewalk flows, and the woman in front of me abruptly stops. My usual fast pace means I crash right into her. “Sorry,” I mutter breathlessly, trying to muster a smile, but the sun blazes in my eyes as I adjust the strap on my bag that slipped off my shoulder when we collided. At twenty-two, you’d think I’d have mastered the art of navigating busy streets by now.
She apologizes and steps aside. I’m running late again. God, I wish I had my shit together like those women who glide through life effortlessly. You know the type… Always fifteen minutes early, never digging through their purse at the checkout or scrambling to find their keys. Their bills are probably paid a week in advance. They’ve got clean cars, perfect nails, and color-coded calendars that they actually use.
Meanwhile, I’m standing here in a coffee-stained sweater, juggling an oversized tote that’s basically my portable junkdrawer, with a phone full of unpaid reminders. My life isn’t just a little messy, it’s a full-blown disaster zone. Like one of those “before” pictures on an organizing show. Except, for me, there’s no neat “after” waiting at the end.
I move past her, eager to continue my walk to The Lincoln School of Art. I’ve been here for a few months now, pouring myself into painting, pushing my skills further with every brushstroke. It started when I was a kid. I’ve always loved drawing, not just with crayons or colored pencils, but on anything I could find. Worksheets, napkins, the backs of old receipts—if there was a blank space, I’d fill it. My brother still teases me about the time I drew on the back of his homework.“You turned my math into flowers,”he said, like it wasn’t an improvement.
But painting? That was different. I remember the first time I held a proper artist brush. It was hard in my grip, solid and real, yet somehow, it felt like holding possibility itself. Like I could take all the broken, unfair things in the world and turn them into something beautiful.
I was fourteen, and my adopted mother, Amber, handed me a palette full of bright, shiny colors. She said,“Here’s your chance to make something that feels alive.”I didn’t know what she meant, but as soon as the brush hit the paper, I felt it. The way the colors moved and blended… It was like magic.
From that moment, painting became my thing. My escape. My joy. While other kids were braiding each other’s hair or playing dress-up, I spent hours in the art room, trying to figure out how to mix the perfect shade of green. My adopted parents even let me paint on a wall in my room. I still remember the freedom that simple act gave me, like someone finally saw the real me beneath all the labels and case files. My fingers trembled holding that first brush, afraid they’d change their minds, but they just smiled and closed the door behind them.
Even when life felt like it was falling apart, painting made everything make sense. It was the one time when the chaos in my head settled into something beautiful. And now, walking to The Lincoln School of Art every morning, it feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I jog up the steps of the concrete building, take the elevator, and hurry down the hall, past offices and classrooms. My heart’s racing as I push open the glass door to class. Inside, students are unpacking supplies… and some are already set up. I nod a quick hello and slip to my usual spot in the back corner. Tucked beneath the fluorescent light, the empty desk awaits. It’s hidden, and that’s exactly how I like it.
Dropping my bag to the table, I open it to pull out my brushes, including my hake, laying them out, and then place my bag near my feet. My body sinks into the plastic chair as I scan the room. There are a total of fifteen students in this class. The school is owned by Eliza Lincoln, my brother's best friend's mother. I don’t see her often, but I look up to her. She’s also a painter, but better known for her art galleries, which she started on her own. She established the art school for people who couldn’t afford formal classes, like me. She supports the school with the best teachers and supplies, including high-quality paper that’s perfect for those of us… like me, who love watercolors.
“Good morning, class.” Mrs. Bennett enters, wearing her classic blue distressed overalls and a white cardigan covered in sunflowers, brightening the room.
We all respond in unison. “Good morning.”
She settles at the front of the class, her messy brown hair in a bun, soon to be filled with art brushes, no doubt. We will have to wait and see to figure out how many.
I peer over at Evelyn, my friend’s empty chair. As usual, she’s running late, probably because she slept in after studying all night.
