Chapter 26
EASTON
As I lace up my running sneakers, my fingers shake, which I very much don’t appreciate.
As hard as I’m trying, this upcoming gallery is rattling me.
It’s not Chase’s fault, and I can’t be upset with him for keeping it from me.
With the way I’m handling the news, I can even admit it was probably for the best that I didn’t know for as long as I did.
And I knew Margeaux was up to something.
I theorized that maybe she’d buy one of my paintings to display somewhere.
Even that would have been weird to swallow.
But this? I can’t do this.
Art has always been my private escape, the only way I could toss myself headfirst into a world that made sense to me.
A fantasy. Nothing that was ever supposed to become too real.
How can it be the place where I’m able to process the more complicated aspects of life if it’s going to be on display for strangers to critique?
I scrub my hands over my face and groan quietly. I’ve got to snap out of this somehow.
“Let’s go,” Blakely says as she jogs down the stairs.
I only nod. The security system beeps as she sets it on our way out before setting off.
She plans our routes ahead of time, following the path that has the highest chances of witnesses of that particular day.
It’s only a small comfort, but it’s all we have.
She allows me to stew in peace, wrapped in a blanket of crisp pre-dawn fog. We’ve been at this long enough that I’ve been able to regain most of the endurance I lost so I no longer feel like I’m holding her back as much, but she still allows me plenty of time to warm up before going full speed.
I haven’t asked what she thinks of the show yet, not ready to hear any positive spin that might interrupt my sulking. I’d rather pull myself out of this particular tailspin, but that will require me to do something I’ve never done before: believe that I’m worthy.
Not something that will happen overnight.
The back of my neck prickles with awareness as goosebumps explode along my flesh. After discreetly looking around and finding nothing obvious, I have to tell Blakely. “He’s watching us. I can feel it.”
From my peripheral vision, I see her shiver. “That’s the goal. If we have his attention now, we need to try and keep it if you’re up for it.”
Like always, when presented with this awful reality I don’t want to deal with, that picture of fourteen-year-old Asher flashes into my mind. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to try and give that boy a break from his pain, even if it’s only temporary.
“I’m up for anything. I’m getting sick of this fucking game.”
She smirks in my direction. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Yeah, maybe so. Whatever it takes to end this once and for all.
The feeling of being watched doesn’t leave for our entire run, so instead of going home and freaking the boys out first thing in the morning, we elect to walk to a nearby coffee shop and hang out there until we figure out what to do with all this attention we didn’t ask for.
Blake slides into the seat opposite of me, looking around wearily. “Your coffee and almond croissant, lovebug,” she says handing them over.
I hate seeing her so freaked out. Living afraid has a terrible effect on your soul after a while, a fact I know all too well. “Thanks. Got any ideas of how to kill time yet?”
She shrugs, taking a sip of her drink. “Take an exceedingly long time to finish our coffee and hope things start opening up by the time we’re through?”
“As good of a plan as any.”
Even despite the walls closing in as the monster grows more bold with each day that passes, we manage to give a good impersonation of two people who are holding it together.
Discussions of books, tales from the days before we knew each other, and breakdowns of Landon’s games from two people who are a far cry from sports commentators all flow easily.
We even are able to smile and laugh, thin as they may be.
All that matters is that we’re putting on a convincing show.
After a quick search on my phone, I find our next destination.
We toss our long empty cups on our way out and link arms like we’re nothing more than a couple of friends excited for a day of quality time.
I don’t comment on the way her fingers threaten to cut off circulation in my arm and she doesn’t either.
“Good pick. I can do a lot of damage in a jewelry store.”
“Really? I didn’t have a clue,” I mutter, eyeing the necklaces, earrings and bracelets she never takes off.
“Ha ha. You’re so funny. Be nice to me or I won’t buy you anything.” She makes for a display, leaving me spluttering like an idiot.
When I catch up, I rush to clarify, “I didn’t bring you here for that. I would never—”
She silences me with a flick of her hand as she scans the case of rings. “Oh, please, babes. As if buying things for my friends isn’t my favorite pastime. I know you don’t expect it. That’s why it’s fun. Now let’s see what we can do about getting you some pretty things to wear for your big day.”
It’s the first time it’s been mentioned since Chase revealed the news, and I take a mental inventory to see if something fatal is happening.
There’s nothing I can locate, so I guess that’s something.
“You enjoy playing dress up with me way too much, Blake.”
“Can you blame me? And don’t pretend you don’t like it as much as I do.”
Well, there’s no arguing with facts. Sometimes I wonder how different life would have been if I had a sister instead of a brother. I wouldn’t change Brady for all the money in the world, but I’d like to think that it would have been a hell of a lot like this.
If this girl is one thing, she is dedicated.
I’m not sure there’s an item in this store I haven’t tried on by the time we leave.
The total at the end had my eyes watering, but Blakely just tapped her card to pay like it was nothing.
“Thank you. Seriously. I’ve never had anything even close to this nice before.
” My throat is thick, making the words come out heavy.
“Don’t mention it. Let’s combine these bags so we don’t have a lot to carry, okay?”
Once everything is all together, we toss the bags in a nearby recycling bin and argue about our next destination. “You need an outfit. Don’t be silly.”
I glare at her, not that it fazes her in the slightest. “You’ve spent enough money on me today.”
“And? How does that negate my point? C’mon. There’s this great spot, like, three blocks away that sells absolutely divine men’s clothing. I buy stuff for Landon there all the time.”
“Do you find comfort knowing that ninety-nine percent of men have nightmares about you?”
She laughs, musical and bright. “Immensely, because they could never afford me. Landon can, though, so that’s all that matters.”
“Cheers to that, I guess.”
So off we go to another store where we shove all the looming threats to the side and try to live in the moment.
Blake operates like a heat seeking missile, zeroing in on the items that she finds worthy of a try-on.
While none of them I’d pick out myself, I can appreciate that she has impeccable taste and a talent for finding stuff that is stylish without toeing the line of giving me a public panic attack.
I’ve come a long way in the last few months, but I’m not nearly confident enough to pull some of this off.
She claps her hands as I fight not to fidget. “Ooohhh, that looks so hot on you. Spin around. Let me see the back.”
I do as requested, feeling heat climb up my neck. “It’s very sheer,” I mutter to no one in particular.
The sales associate, who most likely can smell money, very kindly brings a pair of shoes to compliment Blake’s pick and a couple of bottles of water. “These would look lovely with those pants.”
“I love those. Try them on, Eas. They look like your size.”
She brings them over, and I know better than to argue. They are super comfortable, though. “Thanks,” I say softly to the young girl.
“You look great.” Her response thaws a bit of the skepticism beginning to take root. I know it’s her job to say things like that, but for some reason, I believe her.
Blakely thanks her by name when she walks off to go check another customer out, and I offhandedly wonder how much she shops here.
When my friend joins me in front of the floor-length mirror, standing behind me and adjusting the collar, the last of my nerves dissipate. “It’s not for you if you don’t feel good in it. Full stop.”
I shake my head. “It’s not the clothes. I do like them.
It’s a me issue. I’m trying to get over it.
” Preparing for a day to showcase my art—that I’m not sure I’ll have ready in time—and that I’m certain Aaron won’t allow it to happen, has me feeling all kinds of squirmy.
That doesn’t even touch the dozens of insecurities lurking under the surface about strangers critiquing something I’m really proud of in the privacy of my makeshift studio.
“It’s okay to be all over the place about this, babes.
But we’re going to figure this out, one way or the other.
All you need to worry about right now is staying in the zone and creating pieces that you are entirely in love with.
Everything else will come out in the wash before it can interfere with your big day. ”
“I don’t know if I can, but I’m gonna try,” I tell her, and mean it.
That knowing look in her eye doesn’t escape my notice, but she doesn’t press further. “So is this the winner or do you wanna keep looking?”
“Nah, this is it.”