Chapter 17
The art studio feels like it’s in constant motion.
A swirl of chaos that moves inside my chest. It’s alive. Like a beast pacing in a cage. Chatting and working and laughing and … arguing. It’s the most people I’ve ever seen in this room.
I set my coffee down at my usual table. The storm of voices currently taking over the left corner of the workshop keeps pulling my attention even before I look over.
Doc’s nodding as a girl—I think named DeAnna—argues with him, gesturing wildly.
She’s got a smattering of black paint in her shiny, thick hair and the kind of tears in her eyes that only come from overwhelming anger.
“What happened there?” I ask Benji, who has his head down as he types something on his laptop.
He doesn’t even look up when he answers. “Nirmaliz threw paint at DeAnna’s project, and DeAnna stepped in front of it to try to save her work.”
“Did she?”
“What?” He stops and finally glances at me.
“Did she save the piece?”
“Not really.” He goes back to his assignment.
“How can you work with all this noise?” I ask, but Benji just shrugs.
“I thrive in anarchy. Plus, all the good tables were taken in the writers’ workshop.”
In the center of the table is a pink Post-it on top of a sketch I was doing of Rory and Logan the sheep. Eyes are hard, it reads. I know instantly it’s from Max, and I smile. Farther down the page is another note. Focus on perspective.
My body falls onto the stool with a huff. I’m always working on perspective, just not in art. I take the note and put it into my backpack and look for the author.
“Where’s Max?”
“He took Nirmaliz for a walk. You know how she gets.”
“Yeah,” I say, before I remember I’ve never met Nirmaliz in this timeline. “I’ve heard.”
But Benji doesn’t seem to notice.
I study the sketch of Romeo and Juliet. Something is wrong, and it’s not the perspective. Drawing and erasing and redrawing are starting to give me a cramp in my hand and neck.
I will never get this.
Standing, I stretch my neck and walk past a place where we can discard our work, which reminds me …
Maybe it’s the noise; maybe it’s how restless I feel today.
Honestly, I don’t know why, but I go back to my seat and pull out the drawing I took from Max’s trash.
Putting my earbuds in, I sit back down and start to draw flowers around the hands.
I add rings and age to the skin to make it look older with shading and lines.
It’s just for fun, and because there’s no pressure to do it right, the art flows from me.
I’m so consumed with the work that I don’t notice Doc walking toward me until it’s too late. I scramble to find my drawing for the mural before he makes it to me, but I fail.
“What’s this?” He picks up the paper and frowns. “Is this yours?”
“It’s Max’s. Well, the hands. I just drew on top of it.”
Doc’s face pinches in concentration.
“I know I’m supposed to be working on the mural. I was just … warming up.”
He’s still frowning when he asks, “Has he seen this?”
My stomach turns. I can’t really say, Absolutely not, because I stole it from the discard pile without his permission. So instead, I stutter out, “I … I don’t think so.”
“It’s very good,” Doc tells me.
“It’s just practice. To get me in the right headspace.”
“Huh.” That’s all he says as he keeps looking at the paper. “Max!” he calls across the space, and I feel my heart fall.
Max, who seems to be everywhere when I’m avoiding him and nowhere when I need him, walks through the doors as he searches for the source of the voice that called him.
And then he’s looking at me.
Fuck.
“Oh.” I stand and try to reach for the paper. “Oh, no. That’s okay.”
“Max, come look at this.”
Each of his steps toward me feels like the drumming of an executioner. Benji gives me a curious look, and I widen my eyes, trying to communicate how badly I need to be rescued.
He doesn’t notice and appears to be waiting to see what Doc has in his hands.
“Have you seen this?” Doc asks.
Max looks over his shoulder, and I watch as he slowly pieces together what’s on the page before him. “This is…” His words trail off like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing. “Is this…” He looks at Doc, waiting for him to explain.
“It’s yours,” Doc announces like it’s brilliant. “And she drew over it.”
“It’s hands.” Max is still staring at the paper, and I wish he would just look up at me.
“Yeah.” Doc seems to realize something is off and explains why the art works. “See the light here, and how the hands are holding—”
“I see it.”
Doc takes a deep breath, clearly surprised by Max’s tone. “Okay. Well, as always, this was a brilliant idea, Max.” He sets a hand on his shoulder and squeezes before he gives Max the page.
It takes everything in my power not to rip the work from Max. He studies it like it holds some kind of explanation for what has just happened.
I stand there awkwardly waiting.
For him to speak.
Or yell.
Or even walk away.
But he just stands there. His gaze moving over the work. “I see what you mean about perspective,” he says finally.
He’s talking about the notes I left him when I took this from the trash. My eyes squeeze shut, like I might be able to disappear if I try hard enough. “It was in the trash.” If he wants to talk about his work, we are going to just talk about it, not around it.
Max looks at me with a heavy stare. Maybe he’s trying to understand why I took it, or maybe it’s the rage reflecting from his soul.
“But it’s not yours.”
“You threw it away.” I have no idea why I’m arguing with him. He’s right.
“Does that matter?”
It doesn’t. I know it doesn’t. I would be angry if someone used the work that I had decided wasn’t good, let alone showed other people.
Benji watches the two of us like it’s a tennis match. His head whips from person to person.
“Doc took it from me. I didn’t give it to him.”
It’s clear Max is shocked by what I’m saying. “You are completely missing the point, Nieve.”
I know I am, but I can’t seem to say the two words I actually want to. I’m sorry.
Because no matter what version of my life this is, Max is still Max, and I always seem to want to fight with him.
“Max—”
But he’s walking away.
We spend the rest of the day on opposite ends of the studio, Benji moving back and forth between the two of us like a Ping-Pong ball. I think of a hundred different ways to say I’m sorry, but like the light slipping away outside, my apology seems to fade with it.