Chapter 5 Lucy
LUCY
Knox was avoiding me.
Maybe it was my fault. I’d been standoffish and rude, not engaging him in any conversation. Isabel, my best friend, always teased me about going silent when other people were around, saying my longing to be alone was made obvious to everyone.
Even if it was actually really nice to have someone around sometimes. Isabel was my best friend because she knocked down my walls with a sledgehammer. She never cared about how I hid myself from other people who only wanted to befriend me because my family had money.
I mean, Isabel’s family was rich, too. She had a twin brother, Felix, who she just opened up a restaurant with.
Their parents owned many businesses and invested in other, smaller ones.
It had become quite the empire over the decades—something Dad never approved of.
Getting close to her family was the last straw for my father, and I had to distance myself from them, leaning on Cordelia and Dad instead.
It was lonely. But at least our family was together. Since Omma left, that’s all I wanted: just to be close with my family. If that meant getting my head on straight enough to finish this classic impressionist painting, I’d do it.
But it didn’t make me miss Isabel any less, even though I still had her phone number saved under a fake name on my phone, and I still texted her and Felix on a near-daily basis. And it didn’t make it easier to watch Knox pull away from me.
It was my fault. I had all but ignored him when he spoke to me two days ago. But he’d asked about my paintings. This one, that I didn’t even want to paint. Why would I want to talk about it if I couldn’t even paint it?
“Can I help you with something?”
I blinked, and startled when I found myself at my island, Knox on the other side, stirring ingredients in a bowl.
“Oh, sorry,” I said, lifting my elbows from the marble countertop. “I didn’t mean to get in your way.”
Knox raised one thick eyebrow. They were dark, like his eyes, and his strong jaw was clenched as he glared at me.
“It is your place, right? I just work here.”
I winced. “Look, I’m really sorry that I made you feel out of place here. I know it’s probably not what you’re used to, bec–”
“Why wouldn’t it be what I’m used to?” Knox’s eyes narrowed, flashing dangerously under the lights. “Don’t think a guy like me could ever afford a place of my own?”
“No!” I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant, I swear!”
“Hey, you’re not wrong,” Knox scoffed, stirring harder, sending flour up in a small puff of white while his forearms flexed in a way that was entirely too distracting for the situation at hand. “I’m just some poor guy who needed to get himself auctioned off. That’s not exactly normal, is it?”
“Wait, what?” I frowned. “What do you mean you needed it?”
Knox grunted and set the bowl down hard onto the counter, dropping the spoon into the mixture and pressing his palms against the marble on either side of the bowl. “What do you think?”
I exhaled slowly. Knox was staring at me with such intensity, like this was a test he already knew I was going to fail.
I swallowed. I couldn’t fail. I had to have an answer good enough for him, right?
“Um, what do I think?”
Knox rolled his eyes. “Yes. Why do you think I participated in that stupid fucking auction if not for the cash, huh?”
“I…don’t know. I don’t really know what the auction was about.”
Knox’s glare stayed on me, steady, like it was never going to falter. “Your dad went. And your sister.”
“Yeah, and not me,” I retorted, knowing I probably sounded petulant. “You showed up at my apartment.”
“I was invited,” Knox scoffed, but the tension in his shoulders was easing, even if just a little.
“I know,” I nodded, “my dad invited you. He wants me to finish the painting. You’re here so I don’t have an excuse not to.”
“What the hell does that mean?” But the darkness had left his eyes now, replaced with the same thoughtful curiosity as when he’d asked me about it two days prior.
I rubbed the back of my neck, averting my eyes from his intensity. “Nothing. Just a deadline for this exhibit thing.”
“You got into an art exhibit and you’re crying about it?” Knox’s voice was even, emotionless apart from disapproval, which just made me shrink further into myself.
“I’m not crying about it,” I crossed my arms and squeezed my elbows, needing the pressure. “It’s just hard. I’m trying to work through it.”
“You signed up for it.”
“He signed me up for it!” I snapped, my own gaze meeting his startled one.
I winced. “Sorry. Sorry. I should not be taking this out on you. I’m sorry.”
“Damn, say it one more time, will you.” He snorted, amusement tugging up his lip at the corner. “Chill, okay? I don’t need your ‘I’m sorries.’ I’ve got other things on my mind.”
Feeling dismissed, I turned and trudged back to my easel, where the pastel color swatches stared at me expectantly.
Even my own art was angry with me, but I couldn’t blame it.
I was glaring at it, hating it with every part of my being because it wasn’t what I loved anymore.
I wanted the abyss, with its dark tones swirling across the canvas like a melancholy Greek myth of the Underworld.
I wanted to show the darker parts of a person, of their mind.
Surrealism had called to me, and once I embraced it and put brush to canvas that first time, I knew there was no going back. I knew that with each new painting, I would only fall further into that swell of my own emotions and of the characters I envisioned myself to be.
But that wasn’t very romantic, was it?
I was supposed to be painting a romantic piece, with bright colors, flower pearls, and something that evoked the smell of roses and chocolate.
Mr. Vender had planned the exhibit for his wife, and I couldn’t disappoint with the main piece when I knew the painting was meant to be a gift for his wife for Valentine’s Day.
I sighed and popped another carrot into my mouth before raising my paintbrush again. “Just keep painting, Lucy.”