Chapter 37
I call my mother, and I know by the way she answers that I’ve messed up again.
“Kerrie Monroe Art.”
This is the voice of the mother I grew up with. The one too busy to help me. The one who never wanted me to become an artist. “Hi, Mom.”
“Nieve, dear. Are you okay?”
“Ah, yeah. I just wanted … to talk to you.” It’s such an odd thing to say to this mom.
“Why?”
Before, I would have never told her how I felt.
The fear of being misunderstood by her has always felt like a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
But this mom is technically the same mom as the one who lived with Grandee and spent hours updating me about her day.
“I’m just—” I take a deep breath. “I feel really confused. Everything I do seems to be the wrong thing, and I can’t find a way to make it right.
Time just keeps changing and moving forward, and I can’t ever seem to catch up.
School is hard. Linden feels hard. Even art feels hard. I don’t know…”
My words trail off and are met with a long silence.
“Yeah, I get that. Time is tricky.” She clears her throat, and I wait to be disappointed by her.
“But you can only focus on what’s in front of you, Nieve.
If you worry about what’s going to happen next, nothing will ever feel easy.
Stop asking what you should be doing and ask yourself what feels right. ”
I run a hand against my heart and feel the ache there. But this time, it’s a good ache. The kind that comes from someone knowing the weak parts of you and not judging them but loving you through it. “You’re right.”
“Deep breaths, baby. Your intuition has always been strong; let it tell you what’s next, not your fear.”
I hang up the phone feeling like I’ve just climbed a mountain and reached the top. The air in my lungs feels lighter, even though I know time has changed again.
This time, I hadn’t even spoken to Max, so why?
I run over all the moments that time has shifted, looking for the common ground. Grandee pulled the yarn and burned it in the fire, but since then, time does what it wants. If it’s not Max … what is it?
I decide that it’s time to go to the studio and check on the progress of the pieces for the showcase. Inside is a beehive of chaos. People moving around, putting the final touches on their work or cleaning their stations out since the showcase is basically the end of the year for the studio.
In the back, Doc is framing three pieces of art. Three pieces I didn’t expect to see.
“What is this?”
Doc jumps at the sound of my voice. A side of the frame clatters on the concrete floor, and he moves to stand in front of the work. “Nieve. Hey.”
“What is this?” I repeat, but this time slower.
“It’s … you and Max?” It comes out like a question. As if I can’t recognize my own face. But I’m not talking about the two art pieces of Max and me. I’m talking about the one next to them. The one he’s trying very hard not to draw attention to.
“Yes. I see that. For the gala. Why are you framing the mural piece?”
The mess of art.
Now his sheepish look makes sense. He balls his hands into the fabric of his apron and looks at the art before focusing back on me. “I want to add it to the showcase.”
“I thought you were going to show Max’s and my work.” But suddenly, I know what he’s going to say.
“I was going to do both.”
Both.
“It’s destroyed. Trashed.”
“It’s genius.”
My teeth press against each other. “Has Max seen this?”
“No, not yet.” He shrugs. “I hadn’t even spoken to you about it.”
“Don’t,” I tell him.
“Don’t show him?”
I shake my head. “Don’t use it for the showcase.”
He opens his mouth to speak but seems to decide against whatever he had planned. “Nieve, this is very good.”
“No, it’s not. It’s my rage painting. I tried to ruin it. I don’t want my work in the showcase to be about me. The only reason I agreed to it was so Max could be in it.”
“People will still see Max’s work. He’s very talented.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t. But I don’t want people to compare us as artists. Me as an individual, or him and me together.”
He shifts on his feet, and I know whatever he says next will just be him trying to make this better. “Nieve. This is a great opportunity.”
“I don’t care about that. But you know who does? Max. Do the right thing, Doc. Don’t show this.”
I turn around and walk out of the studio and end up on the grass in the quad, under a tree that used to be one of my favorites.
My phone goes off. Once. Twice.
Five times, before I eventually pull it from my back pocket.
The newest is from Max.
I told Doc it was fine.
The work is good.
My stomach twists. The next text is from Linden.
Found your dress. It’s green. You’re welcome. No excuses now.
It’s accompanied by a picture of her smiling with her hand underneath her chin, as if her adorable face is on display with the green dress hanging in front of our mirror.
And the last text is from Grandee.
Hi Nieve. It’s your grandmother. I expect you to be at the gala. If sheep have to go, so do you. Love, Grandee.
My head falls back on the trunk of the tree, and the groan that escapes me is involuntary.
Everything feels so out of control and confusing and I’m not sure what steps will change fate and keep Carter alive and which ones will just lead me toward the inevitable.
The sky above my head shifts from bright blue to darkened gray as a cloud blocks the sun, and my thoughts follow.
What if Carter’s fate is something I can’t change? Before I can talk myself out of it, I text him.
I heard you’re not going to the gala.
Nope. Going to the lake house.
Everything okay?
It is what it is.
You won’t miss much. Boring auction.
He sends me a thumbs-up emoji and it feels so out of character for Carter that I almost call him, but the sky is back to blue and so are my thoughts. Carter won’t be at the gala. He’ll be miles and miles away. He can’t follow me into a river.
“Hey, Nieve.”
When I look up, Alex is standing there. A designer bag slung over one shoulder and sunglasses over her eyes.
“Alex.” I don’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see Carter.”
“Did Linden call you?”
She looks confused. “Why would she call me?”
“Never mind. I think Carter left school…” My words trail off because on Alex’s feet are a pair of red shoes.
Shoes I recognize as the shoes that Carter gave to me. That I hated, but he loved. Ones I threw into his grave at his funeral.
“Where did you get those shoes?”
Her expression moves from confused to wary. “Um, Carter gave them to me.”
“Carter gave you those?”
I barely hear what she says; there’s a pounding in my ears. Because … I think I’ve been wrong this whole time. This isn’t about time trying to correct itself for me.
It’s about Alex.
“Can you come to the gala?” I ask her.
“What?”
“Just … come. I’ll make sure Carter is there.”
When she agrees, I get on the phone and call Carter. It takes some persuading, but eventually, he tells me he’ll come to the gala showcase. It feels almost wrong to hear him say he’s coming. The one thing I’ve been dreading and trying to avoid for so long.
And I can only hope that I’m right about this.
Carter’s life depends on it.