Not Catching Love (Accidental Love #5)

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Xander

The whole way home, my mood is infecting my friends. There’s that little voice telling me I need to cut it out before they get sick of me, but I can’t. The sourness in my limbs is biting. I wish we’d never gone there and that Derek had been free to hook up with that asshole who was pawing him. At least the two of them look like a pair that makes sense. A pair who can have a fast and dirty encounter in a public bathroom before going their separate ways, whereas me and Derek? There isn’t a world in any multiverse where I make sense being with him.

“Sorry, Xander,” Madden mutters. “I saw the club post that video of him and …”

And what? Thought it would be a good idea to rub my face in what I can’t have?

I’m not going to snap at Madden though, no matter how infected I am. Seven is the one who gets that side of me, and I won’t share it with anyone else. No one else can handle me like that.

Though I’m getting the impression lately that Seven doesn’t want to deal with that side of me either. The irrational side that I know is wrong, but whenever that side comes out, I don’t want to control it. I want to feed the gross, slimy feelings until I feel exactly as pathetic as I am.

Words are bubbling up in my chest, and I keep swallowing them back down again. It’s like acid, the way they’re burning their way to my lips.

The bus pulls up, and we climb out, then make our way home. Molly is cuddled into Seven’s side, where I always used to be, and I know I could attach myself to the other, but I don’t. I let the crappy feelings creep in deeper. Give them complete consent to ruin me. To make my heart feel like it’s being flayed.

I’ll never deserve a love like they have.

Then Madden’s heavy arm wraps around my shoulders and pulls me in close. “I really am sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He wasn’t thinking, that’s the problem. At least, that’s what my bitterness is telling me. It’s cute that he thinks I’d have a chance with a guy like Derek, but he was only setting me up to fail, and I have to try really hard not to hold that against him.

“It’s fine.”

“You’re sulking.”

“Why would I be sulking? My dream man couldn’t get away from me fast enough. That’s not something to sulk about.”

I can feel the three of them exchange looks over my head, and I hate that they can do that so easily, but I’m also not going to draw attention to it. If I do, it’ll give them the opening to talk, and I don’t do that with just anyone.

I’m heavy by the time we reach the house, and I can’t stop questioning whether Derek really did go home or if he’s off hooking up with someone he’s actually attracted to. I shouldn’t be mad at Madden when I’m the one who came on too strong. I’m the one not good enough. I’m the one who failed. Like always. Maybe if I’d kept things light and breezy, we’d still be talking now. I have this deep hunger to know everything about him, and I actually had the chance.

I blew it.

“I’m going to paint,” I say lifelessly as I leave the others in the foyer and make my way down the hall to my studio. I don’t have the itch to paint, but I haven’t all week. My last canvas was a fucking mess that someone paid four figures for because when it comes to art, people are stupid. They can’t see the mistakes and horrible lines and the way I fucked up so much I had to smother my work in five layers of paint to get it to a passable level.

Acrylics are what I like to work with the most. Slightly abstract landscapes, mostly forest or woodsy with an otherworldly magic to them, but my cityscapes do the best.

The more realistic art, or the art I do when I’m in a fever pitch of emotion, doesn’t see the light of day. It’s stored against the wall in racks of canvas that I never have to face again.

I grab a smaller canvas, planning to sponge it with a gray, green, and pink color scheme before I decide what to add to the layers. My process is to sponge the background until I’m happy with it, layer and build the acrylics around it, and then paint in the details. Most of my followers love watching the time-lapse videos of a piece coming together, even though I fucking hate filming my process and usually cut out as many of the imperfections as I can.

I set up my phone and switch to the front camera. My makeup is intact despite the sweaty club, and I spend a moment trying to fix my hair, that weight on my chest deepening as it won’t stay flat .

“You stupid fucking fuck ,” I grit out, attaching my phone to the tripod and starting again. The heat in the club has fucked with my pedantic straightening job, and the ends are all curling back like they’re fighting me. I fucking hate my mousy poodle curls. I fucking hate my ugly gray eyes. I was born the most boring person in existence, so I really can’t blame my parents for giving me away.

My dumb hair won’t damn cooperate.

Instead of filming myself painting, I redirect the camera so that only the canvas is in frame. The video won’t do as well as the ones that have me in them, but at this point, I doubt it will even be posted.

There’s no passion driving me, only that deep-seated guilt brought on by a week of not working and the fear that if I don’t regularly update, I’ll become obsolete. All that luck I had will disappear, and I won’t be able to pay my bills and make rent, and then everyone will get sick of me and kick me out of the house. It’s going to happen eventually, and some days, I don’t know why I keep fighting it.

I hit Play, then reach a shaky hand out to the brush with the googly eyes. “Make this one good for me, Paint-bruh.”

With him held up to the camera, I put on his voice. “Can’t wait, little Z. We’re going to create a masterpiece.”

I snort. “Way to oversell it, dickhead.”

Paint-bruh is set down in favor of a sponge instead, and then I get to work. It’s frustratingly tedious. The colors aren’t blending out right. I’m trying to lay a background of light coming through trees, but I’m nowhere near talented enough to pull it off.

I really should have studied this, but the funny thing about foster parents is that none of them are all that eager to shell out a fuckload of money to send some random kid to a specialty college. In order for me to get the scholarships I would have needed, I actually had to finish high school, and while I could have tried for community college, by the time I should have been looking into it, my first piece went viral. Turns out that people online with money to spend don’t give a shit about standardized education. I’ve been keeping myself afloat since, but having my high school diploma would have been nice.

It’s been a long time since I learned that degrees are for healthy people.

As I work, I fall into that single-minded void of creativity that helps drown out the constant background noise of not being good enough. That void where all that exists is the colors and how they’re working—or, in this case, not working—together.

I wet the sponge to bring the darker green further down, but it’s looking less like a forest and more like the claggy boogers inside a nostril. Every time I start a new piece, all I can think about is how much easier this might be if I was actually good at it. If I had something beyond a detailed vision of the end result and a very rough framework to get me there.

Once the canvas is covered in paint, I take a step back and inspect it. The more I look, the deeper a sneer pulls at my face. I end the recording, delete the video, and toss the canvas into the stack of disappointments in the corner. The stack that’s far outnumbering the ones good enough to sell.

Maybe if I become homeless, I can beg Aggy to let me stay with her. She’s old now, and she doesn’t have as long as everyone else to get sick of me, so I’d have a good chance there.

If my anxiety doesn’t kill me, the smell of her potpourri would.

I meticulously wash up my equipment in the small sink in the corner and then plan to sneak out of the room to head upstairs and shower. The second I open my door, sunlight burns my eyeballs, and I have to blink rapidly to cool them the fuck down. What the hell time is it ?

Past six.

Right.

I’ve blocked out all light coming through the windows into my room to make it feel like a den in there. Like a cozy, hidden cave for a scared little animal like me.

I hover in the hallway, straining my ears to see if anyone else is awake, but I don’t pick up any noise. I know the sound of all my roommates’ and their partners’ footsteps, can place where they are in the house and the ways their walks change based on their moods. I’m tempted to go looking for company anyway but too terrified to find an empty house. No matter how desperately I need connection, how my heart feels bruised and raw, I ignore the urges.

Upstairs, I shower, scrubbing every inch of skin I can reach until it’s red raw. Then I dry my hair, straighten every strand, and set to work putting on a light layer of makeup.

I’m hesitant to take out my contacts, but my eyes are feeling seriously dry and irritated, so I remove them reluctantly, then avoid looking in the mirror.

I’m not that person anymore. Not the boy with the brown hair and gray eyes. Not the unlovable, invisible child.

Back in my room, the giant, frumpy hoodie I stole from Christian is calling to me. I’m craving the warmth and the comfort, but I ignore it in favor of a midriff and cotton shorts. No comfort. Only cute. Imagine the disaster if I fell unconscious in my sleep, needed to be rushed to the hospital, and was wearing something five sizes too large for me? I doubt any of my roommates would think to stop and get me changed first.

So, I dress. And I curl up in bed. And I try not to mess up my hair and makeup while I fall into a fitful sleep.