Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The first thing I heard was the clashing of dishes and pans coming from the kitchen.
It startled me a bit, dragging me out of sleep.
Peeling my eyes open, I squinted at my surroundings before feeling the spot beside me.
My hand grazed over the sheets and blankets, all piled up haphazardly on the bed.
Crescent wasn’t there, and the spot wasn’t warm anymore.
I threw my legs over the side of the bed, finally crawling out from under the blankets. The door was shut, which was odd. I didn’t like it to be shut.
The clanging only got louder the further I got, along with the sound of Crescent humming softly. I absentmindedly rubbed my exposed stomach, raising my hand until I could pull on the hem of my crop top. This one was gray and just as soft as the black one. My new favorite things to sleep in.
“Cres?” I called, my voice cracking at the end of his name. When I padded my way to the kitchen, I saw him.
Crescent was swaying his hips, most likely with earbuds in his ears.
His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, swishing slightly with each movement.
The counters were covered with different bowls, streaks of flour making a trail between each one.
He was humming something under his breath, his movements following the melody.
He hadn’t heard me yet, so I slowly tiptoed my way to him, coming up on his side. “Cres?”
I watched as he jumped, gasping in surprise. “Jesus! Oh, you scared the fuck out of me.”
“I can see that.” I couldn’t hide the smile on my face if I wanted to. “What are you up to?”
He put a hand over his heart dramatically, reaching into his pocket. “I’m making muffins. Wanna help whisk it all up and pour them in?”
I looked at the bowl in front of him, which looked pretty whisked already. There was a muffin tin sitting on top of the stove, with little papers tucked into each slot. “Sure, yeah.”
“Just take this and mix it all together for me. I’ll start cleaning stuff up.”
Bowl in hand, I started to stir the batter in circular motions, periodically alternating between clockwise and counterclockwise. I made sure to mash down any parts that were clumped together, mixing them all with the liquid. “So, what kind are these?”
Crescent carried some utensils to the sink, running water over them. “Plain old blueberry. I have a cup of them over here if you want to grab them and fold them in.”
After folding the blueberries into the batter, Crescent helped me scrape it into the muffin tins. “This looks like a lot of muffins, Cres. Are we going to eat them all?”
He shrugged, throwing them into the oven. “Eh, probably not. We can put them in the fridge for Sarah, though.”
I nodded, helping him clean up the massive mess he’d made.
For someone who worked in a bakery, he sure didn’t know how to be clean about it.
Looking down, I noticed some flour and batter had splashed across my crop top, some of it dripping onto my stomach.
I swiped away at the drops, which only made things worse.
Ignoring the mess for the moment, I turned to Crescent, who was drying his hands off with a paper towel. “When did you wake up?”
“Uh, I never really slept, honestly.” He shrugged. “Maybe for an hour or so, and then I lay there forever, trying to sleep more. I decided to come in here to watch some TV on mute and scroll TikTok instead.”
He acted like it was no big deal. Meanwhile, if I hadn’t slept all night, I would be pure dead weight. “And then you decided to bake some muffins?”
“What else was I gonna do? I thought I might as well put my mind to something I love doing. I’ve spent many nights baking until the sun came up. Just get lost in it, you know? Or, try to, I guess.”
I nodded because I did know. Back when art and painting had been everything to me, I’d stay up until the birds started to sing sometimes, putting paint to a canvas as if I were going to die the next day.
Something as silly as time didn’t matter when I loved what I was doing—when I was creating something entirely my own, straight from my brain itself.
“Come on.” He pushed off the sink counter, walking past me. “Go ahead and put on a new shirt, and we can put something on to watch while we wait for the muffins.”
After throwing a new crop top on, I followed him to the couch, sitting right beside him.
Despite what he was trying to lead me to believe, he looked tired.
There were purple bags underneath his eyes, making them appear sunken in from the side.
His eyelids drooped, like they were going to fall shut whether he wanted them to or not.
I watched as he slowly flipped through the different channels and programs available, not staying on any one of them.
He looked down at the remote in his hand, pausing for a moment.
I started to worry he was falling asleep because of how still and silent he was.
He glanced up quickly, looking at the corner before turning back to me.
“Have you thought more about painting? You never did say anything when I brought up the idea of having Sarah get you some supplies from the store.”
Shrugging, I looked anywhere but at him.
I didn’t want to meet his gaze. I was afraid that, if I did, he’d see right through me.
Through the bullshit facade I’d learned to live with for the last nine years.
The lie I’d told myself and everyone else.
That my very first love—the only passion I’d ever had in life—was dead and gone.
The truth? I’d thought about it. Agonized over it. The idea of never painting again was incomprehensible. Younger me would’ve slapped present me for even suggesting it. Honestly, he would’ve done more than slap me for letting a man like Jude take it away from me.
Sometimes, I dreamt about it. In the dreams, I’d have this gorgeous, wonderful idea, and I’d spend hours executing every detail. When I woke up, I’d never remember the idea, and I’d never see the final product. Like a nightmare that kept resurfacing, my passion and talent would chase me.
“I can get some stuff for you if you’d like.” I knew he was looking at me, studying my face for some sort of sign.
Could I even comprehend the idea of trying again? I shrugged, deciding a non-answer was the best answer. If he wanted to bring supplies into the apartment, I guessed I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t say yes, though. Admitting it out loud almost felt like a bad omen.
Crescent switched the channel to something different. I felt the couch dip slightly as he fell against it. “Once we eat, we can run up to the store, then.”
I looked at the screen, not really watching or absorbing anything playing on it. My eyes unfocused, leaving nothing but a blurry, incomprehensible show of colors and sounds. Colors I found myself envying—so free and vibrant without a single ounce of effort.
The blank canvas had come to life at some point, staring straight into my eyes. Small bumps in its rough texture started to open up, speaking in a language I couldn’t understand. Somehow, I knew what they were saying even without the words.
They were mocking me. Though they had no lips or teeth, they were snarling at me with disgust. Contempt. Disbelief. I let my gaze roam over each white space on the canvas, imagining the way it’d feel beneath my fingertips, though I didn’t dare touch it.
No—if I touched it, I’d ruin it. Right? That’s all I ever did.
Crescent had gone to the closest store to us, letting me stay at the apartment while he was gone.
It didn’t take him very long, sticking to the short list of items I’d written down for him to get.
His number was at the top of my favorites list in my contacts, only a tap away if I’d needed him. It was the security we both needed.
A simple, blank canvas. One set of acrylic paints in each of the basic colors on the color wheel.
A set of paintbrushes in various sizes and types.
A palette to mix paints on. He’d also brought me a cup full of water to clean the brushes off when needed.
All the ingredients an artist needed to make a painting, yet none of them could make the painting without the artist.
And I no longer felt like an artist. I felt like a con.
My solitude was the room I more often than not shared with Crescent each night.
Each wall held a secret, or a memory I knew I wasn’t privy to.
I still thought about them, as past ideas from a past me who no longer existed came and went in my mind.
Landscapes of beautiful, sunny meadows with nothing but fields of green forgiveness turned muddy in my head. Dark, secretive mounds of dirt took hold, banishing the once-beautiful fantasy world I’d created and replacing it with one of pity and despair.
Countless photos of different flowers and animals came to mind as well, something teenage me would’ve appreciated with bright, open, and young eyes.
Innocent eyes. They burned into the edges of my mind, turning into the bloodied mouth of a hungry lion.
The sides of its mouth, along with its snarling teeth, were painted with my soul.
A crimson facade, deep and remarkable in its color, with hidden crypts containing my happiness.
My hand shook as I reached for a paintbrush. A simple, fresh brush with nothing to stain it yet. Its bristles were straight and even, not yet abused by the hours of a painter’s frustration. I’d always loved fresh brushes. The potential in them had fascinated me.
But what potential could I lead them to, when I feared nothing but failure would show?
I shook my head, grabbing the paint palette, the red paint, and the white.
After squeezing out dots of each, I swirled the brush into them, mixing them together until they became a beautiful shade of pink.
My first mark on the canvas was a simple, pink stripe.