Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
EWAN
Itry not to think about what I’m doing. I try to focus on the sound of the ocean and birdsong coming through the open window. I try to focus on the groan of the house around me—Shiloh’s house—and the feelings I could turn into something beautiful, if only my body would cooperate. I fail.
Every time I touch the bristles to the canvas, it gets a little harder to breathe.
The colors feel wrong, the shapes feel wrong, everything is just wrong.
My fingers ache where they’re pinched too tightly around the brush, and the back of my head hurts, pain licking up my rigid spine to sit at the base of my skull.
The smell of the paint—usually something I enjoy—is caustic and overwhelming.
I blame that for how hard it is to breathe since I know it’s not actually possible for my rib cage to be shrinking, no matter how much it feels like someone is sitting behind me, cranking it smaller and smaller and smaller.
My therapist once told me that anxiety was miles long but only an inch deep, that my brain was good at making small things into big—molehills into mountains and puddles into oceans.
But sometimes I wonder if my therapist is a fucking idiot because this isn’t a molehill.
This is a goddamn Everest-sized mountain I’m scaling, and the anxiety, though unwelcome, is correct.
This is something I need to be worried about.
This is my livelihood, the only thing I’m good at, and what if I’m not any longer?
What if I was only allotted a set number of paintings and I’ve used them up? What am I good for if I can’t do this?
Dropping the paintbrush, I shake my hands out.
They’re zinging like little bees are buzzing to life in my fingertips.
I’m probably having a stroke. Or a heart attack, rather, which would explain the difficulty breathing.
Maybe I should jot down a few wishes on the canvas, make sure to leave everything to Shiloh, and let him know to just dump my body in the ocean and be done with it.
A last will and testament would be better than the trash heap that’s currently painted on the damn thing. Fuck this.
Standing up, I continue shaking out my hands and arms, walking over to look out the window and wishing I had an ocean view.
Wishing that the view I do have of the driveway also featured Shiloh’s truck coming home because I’m almost certain the cure for anxiety is the steady weight of someone sure.
Honestly, Shiloh might be the cure for everything.
Another thing my therapist would likely have a few opinions about.
Sighing, I leave the window, flip off the canvas, and exit the room.
Shiloh told me, in no uncertain terms, that his house is my house; his things are my things, and I’m free to do as I wish while I’m here and he’s hauling.
Even though I’ve spent every day this week here, I still feel a little weird about it.
I’m comfortable being here with him, but being here alone has me feeling things I’m not sure I have any business feeling.
Shiloh’s earnest “my home is your home” didn’t help.
Because I want that to be true. In the deepest, most selfish parts of my soul, I want that to be true.
I want what someone who left for seven years has no business wanting, has no right to ask for.
But I didn’t ask. Shiloh gave, and like the greedy little bastard I am, I’ve been sucking it up like a sponge.
And it will never be enough, I know that now.
I could sleep here every night, wake up every morning to sleepy lovemaking and stale kisses, have dinner on the patio, and hold his hand when we go hiking.
I could have all of that and more and still never feel satisfied.
Downstairs, I consider stopping for a snack in the kitchen before simply passing by and opening the back door.
I don’t want food; I want to drown myself in the ocean.
Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I click Daniel’s name and listen to it ring.
I’m supposed to call him first whenever I start feeling maudlin, therapist second if shit has really gotten out of hand.
“Hey, kid,” he answers, voice muffled as if he’s still bringing the phone up to his ear.
“I’m quitting,” I announce. Daniel sighs.
“You already quit yesterday,” he reminds me. “It starts to lose its meaning when you do it every five minutes.”
“I’m not joking this time. I think I’m done. I don’t have any creativity! The muse has fucking left me, and she took my goddamn talent with her. Everything I do sucks!”
Striding toward the edge of the water, I pass a rock and consider kicking it just to really drive home the petulant child routine. I abstain, but it’s a close thing. Maybe I’ll hit it on the way back to the house.
“Okay. Resignation granted. What are you going to do instead?”
I pause, scrunching up my face in a scowl. That fucker.
“You’re supposed to talk me out of it. Whisper sweet things in my ear, butter me up a little bit.”
“My rates have gone up, and you don’t pay me enough for that,” he replies. I laugh, reaching the waterline and allowing myself the treat of kicking a rock into the water. Not quite as satisfying as I’d hoped.
“I’m really frustrated,” I admit, standing far enough back that the water doesn’t lap at my shoes, but close enough that the only thing for miles in front of me is ocean. “I’m tired of this.”
“I know, kid. But you’re making things harder on yourself. The more you worry, the harder it’s going to be to get anything done. Give yourself room to breathe, for Pete’s sake.”
“I think I need to go back on the anxiety medication.”
“No,” Daniel says sharply. “Your depression got out of control when you were on that garbage. No, Ewan.”
“There are other brands I could try. Other types.”
“No drugs. It didn’t work for you, and it became dangerous to try.” His voice is hard, the tone one that I rarely hear from him. Daniel is so much like a parent, I’ve occasionally had the errant thought about how much I’d have liked to have him as a father growing up. He’d be good at it.
Sitting down, I try to find a comfortable spot on the rocky ground, bringing my knees up and leaning my forearms across them. Tipping my head back, I gently roll it from side to side, trying to convince my neck to relax.
“Ewan,” Daniel says when I’ve been silent for too long.
“I want to paint,” I tell him. He’ll know what I mean.
“Stop pushing it.”
“You’re the one who sent up the supplies.” I almost growl the words, trying to work up a little anger. Anger is such a healthy, satisfying emotion when compared to despondency and fear and pain.
“Yes. For you to have fun. That’s the problem. You’ve somehow gotten it into your head that painting is your job and not something you can enjoy.”
“It is my job!” And isn’t that the fucking pits. This is why people warn you away from a job in the arts—if you lose your ability to create, you have nothing left.
“Stop it,” he snaps. He’s so much better at anger than I am.
“This is what you do—you hyperfocus on one thing and let it spiral out of control. Stop. Take a breath. You have more than enough money to keep yourself solvent for years without working. Hell, decades, probably, with your active investments. We could rent out your place in LA for some passive income if you needed it.”
My face flushes. Talking about money always embarrasses me. Daniel has a better idea than most of what my financials look like, and the knowledge never fails to fill me with a touch of shame. He’s such a good guy, he deserves to be rich more than I do.
“It’s not about the money,” I mumble. And it’s not. I don’t spend frivolously, and I do have a solid investment portfolio, thanks to Daniel.
“Okay, then explain to me why you keep referring to painting as your job, then? The point of a job is to earn a paycheck. You don’t need a paycheck, ergo, you don’t need a job.”
I frown. I love watching Daniel use logic against other people. Not so much when it’s me on the receiving end.
“I want to paint,” I repeat. “And you said you’ve got collectors reaching out, wanting to know if anything is—”
“Forget about the collectors, Ewan. Is that what you’ve been worrying about?
You don’t work for them; you work for you.
They’ll be there salivating at your feet the moment you have a new piece to share.
Until then, they can wait. Heck, the longer it takes, the more hyped up they’ll be about it, probably.
” Daniel scoffs, and I picture him shaking his head at them and me on the other end of the phone.
“Art collectors will exist no matter what; they’ll be there tomorrow or twenty years from now. Don’t let them rush you.”
“Maybe I should try commissioned pieces, or—”
“Maybe you should stop trying to fix things and just relax,” he says, cutting me off. “Maybe you should give yourself a little grace and stop pushing so hard. Maybe you should take the vacation you’re meant to be on right now.”
Ah, and there it is. The other reason I’m anxious right now—the vacation I’m on that I wish wasn’t a vacation but my real life.
I’m pretty sure everyone goes on a trip and wishes they could call that place home, at least for a little while.
But it’s different for me, because this was the life I wanted as a kid, torched as an adult, and am now trying to rebuild.
“Don’t try to paint anything unless you want to,” Daniel continues. “And don’t do it for the purpose of selling. Do it because it’s fun and you love it and you have an idea, no matter how silly or stupid you believe it is. I know how you think.”
Grimacing, I scuff my heel back and forth on the sandy bank, dislodging smaller rocks and sending them skittering toward the sea. He knows exactly how many ideas I had for pieces that were never attempted because I’d convinced myself they were idiotic.