Chapter 5 The Firefly
THE FIREFLY
DAMON
The narrow staircase of Firefly Art Studio feels like a treacherous ascent into the pits of my own personal hell. I can't believe that I’m here. An art class? Really? That’s what came out of my mouth?
Fucking idiot.
I thought she’d forget that slip of the tongue but no.
The woman’s got the memory of a damn elephant.
A gorgeous, sexy fucking elephant. As if I don’t have better things to do.
Like what, Damon? Emery’s voice sounds in my mind.
You’re unemployed and need a hobby. I inwardly scowl.
Keeping Amir Hadid from looking at you is my fucking hobby.
Fuck!
I push open the door, frustrated by the fact I’m even entertaining this absurdity.
The eyes of the people inside the studio dart toward me.
Great, I’m a damn tourist attraction. Clearly, they’re confused as to why Damon Cavanaugh, a man who can afford private lessons, is joining a beginners' art class in fucking Chelsea.
I grit my teeth, offering a stiff nod to the curious glances as I make my way through the room.
Easels are set up in a circle, each one hosting an “aspiring” artist. I roll my eyes at the cliché bowl of fruit placed in the center of the room. They couldn't have picked anything more unoriginal to paint.
The art teacher, an older woman in her 60s, sports a dirty ass smock.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. While I scowl at my situation, she calls out for everyone to take a seat.
Clenching my fist, I scan the room, and my gaze locks on the only available stool.
With a resigned sigh, I walk toward it, my irritation palpable with every heavy, dragging step.
The woman sitting on the stool next to mine gives me a warm smile and waves me over. Her friendliness is unsettling, and I don’t like it. Or need it. As I take my seat, she extends a hand. Great.
"Hi, I'm Sage. First time here?"
I reluctantly shake her hand. "Damon. And yes, it's my first time. Hopefully, my last."
Sage chuckles, tucking a stray dark curl behind her ear. "Don't worry, Damon. We're all here to have a good time."
"A good time?" I mutter, the tips of my finger’s tingling with budding anxiety. “Yeah, sure.”
As the class begins, the art teacher introduces herself as Bella Sharpe and provides an overview of the session.
I glance at the various brushes, paints, and canvases in front of me.
Fucking hell. What am I doing here? I’ve never painted with purpose before.
Never. I’ve only ever enjoyed the chaos of my creations, unplanned and disorganized. Stupid.
I grumble under my breath, “This is ridiculous.”
Sage elbows me playfully, her hearing far too keen for my liking. "Oh, come on, Damon. Just have fun with it. Art is supposed to fun!"
I scowl at her. “Your enthusiasm is annoying.”
She rolls her eyes, dipping the tip of her paintbrush into a violent shade of yellow. “And your attitude is nauseating.” I lift a brow at her quick response. Sage glances at me, smirking. “What? Has the great Damon Cavanaugh never been called nauseating before?”
So she does know who I am.
“Not that I can recall,” I murmur, woefully humbled by the tiny art geek.
“Figures.” Her gaze zeros in on the monstrosity she’s painting.
I scowl at her odd color choices. There isn’t even a lemon in the bowl.
What is she doing? “I bet you pay people to follow you around and shout compliments.” She puts on an awful aristocratic English accent.
“Oh, Mr. Cavanaugh, aren’t you simply dashing?
Mr. Cavanaugh, the way you walk resembles that of an elegant gazelle.
Oh, Mr. Cavanaugh, your shit smells like the finest bouquet of roses! ”
I blanch at her absurdity. “I—”
She grins. “Uh-oh, Sage got your tongue?”
I blink. “Is this how you normally speak to strangers?”
“Strangers?” She points a finger to a tacky plaque drilled into the wall.
“We’re all family here, Damon. Or can’t you read?
” She snickers to herself. “My bad, you’ve probably got someone to read signs for you.
It would be a complete travesty if you had to use your own precious eyes to read for yourself, wouldn’t it? ’
“I’m sorry,” I drawl out, completely floored by her attitude, “but have I done something to offend you?”
Her head snaps in my direction, and she grins. “No, why would you ask me such a silly question?” She nods to my untouched paint and brushes. “Better get painting, champ. The best portrait wins,” her eyes light up with feigned glee, “a chocolate bar!”
“You’re an odd woman,” I mumble, choosing to focus on the task at hand and not the strange human perched to my right.
"I’d rather be odd than boring." She dips her brush into the pot of black paint, glancing over at my empty canvas. "You know, Damon, this painting is supposed to be an expression of your soul. What does it say that yours is still blank?"
I sigh, regretting every life decision that led me to this art class. "Perhaps I’m soulless then."
It’s the truth.
“Sheesh…” Sage purses her lips, giving me a careful once-over. "Someone sounds a little stresso-depresso. You should pick up your brush. Painting can be therapeutic, you know?"
I scoff. I’ve tried that, Sage. Do I look healed to you?
"Mhmm.”
She leans in, her eyes narrowing with a surprising intensity. "It could help, you know. You don’t exactly look like a paragon of great mental health. No offense.”
Taken aback by her unfiltered honesty, I glower at her. "What are you talking about?"
"Sage." She points to herself as if I needed clarification. "That's my name. Sage. ‘What are you talking about, Sage?’” She chuckles to herself when I don’t respond. “Sorry, my therapist says I use humor to deflect my real feelings."
I'm not accustomed to people being so upfront, especially about something as personal as therapy. But before I can even process it, she continues rambling.
"I mean, who knew, right? Apparently, I'm here to paint away my grief.
My therapist thinks it helps with trauma or some crap.
My mom died several months ago from cancer.
It was brutal, and now I'm supposed to find solace in a bowl of fruit and a canvas.
" She lets out a bitter laugh, swiping at a tear that escapes despite her attempts to remain composed.
"Trauma therapy through art. Who comes up with this stuff? "
I offer a hesitant nod, a gesture of nuanced understanding.
Sage, however, doesn't wait for my response. "Didn't your family also die?"
I'm stunned, rendered speechless by her forward question and her lack of tact. But Sage, apparently unfazed by my silence, continues. "My therapist says talking about it is the first step to healing. Have you ever tried talking about your family, Damon?"
I can't muster a response, my mind caught in the cyclone of her abrupt revelations and the unsettling realization that I'm now expected to share my own traumas. This class was a horrible fucking idea.
“Hello? Earth to Damon!” she singsongs, frowning. “You still with me? Yoohoo.”
“I don’t discuss my personal life with strangers,” I grunt, aggressively sticking a brush into black paint.
“Do you need me to point to the sign again?” she quips, grinning. “Sharing is caring, Damon. If you don’t talk about it, you’ll never get over it.”
“I’m fine.” I destroy the pristine canvas with dark shades and shapes. “I think it’s time to stop talking now.”
She clicks her tongue. “Uh-oh. I’ve offended him.”
I shoot her a withering glare. "You have no right to pry into my personal life. It's none of your business."
Sage snorts, seemingly unimpressed by my curt response. "Whoa, there, Mr. Cavanaugh. No need to get so defensive. You know, I'm not a therapist, but you might want to work on that temper."
I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to snap at her again. "What are you even doing here? Do you work for some gossip magazine or something? You here to dig up celebrity secrets?"
She rolls her eyes, leaning back on her stool. "First off…” She cocks her head. “I think it’s cute you think you’re a celebrity.” My posture stiffens and she laughs. “Relax, Damon, not everyone is out to hurt you."
I rub my temples, a headache forming. "I don't need your insights, and I certainly don't need you psychoanalyzing me."
Sage shrugs, undeterred. "Maybe not, but it wouldn't hurt to let people in. Having a support circle is essential, you know? Someone you can trust."
I let out an exasperated sigh. "I have support."
"Oh, really?" Sage lifts a skeptical brow. "Who's your support, then?"
I scowl, irritated by her persistence. "That's none of your business."
Sage smirks. "Come on, it's not like I'm going to stalk them or anything. I'm just curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat," I mutter under my breath.
Sage forges ahead. "I bet it's that gorgeous woman who attended the Marquis Foundation event with you last year."
My jaw tenses at the mention of Emery.
Sage notices my reaction and pounces on it. "Oh no, is it unrequited love? That's almost as bad as death."
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself.
Sage's assumptions are way off base. Emery is not some unrequited love interest. She's my life, my friend, my person, and I know she loves me, regardless of her public relationship with Quinton.
It's complicated but it's our reality. Sage doesn’t have the slightest idea of what she’s talking about.
She leans in, studying my face. "Come on, Damon, spill it. Who's the mysterious support in your life?"
I glance at her, my tone firm. "None of your business, Sage."
She pouts playfully. "You're no fun.”
Thankfully, for the rest of the class, Sage’s mouth remains shut, and I lose myself in the art. I can’t believe her audacity. Who asks such invasive questions? She’s acting like we’re friends. Like I owe her answers. It’s ridiculous. Completely inappropriate.
I splatter paint on the canvas, sinking into a world of my own creation. It’s only me. The paint. And the canvas. They are me, and I am them. Together, we try to make sense of the chaos. Together, we try.
Before I know it, Bella’s voice barrels through the borders of my isolated mind, and the class is over. Fucking finally.
As she walks around the room, a cheap commercial chocolate bar in hand, she hums and awes, her animated brows doing the talking for her. When she does a full circle, she stops near her desk and clears her throat.
“You all did a fabulous job today! Truly. However, there is one student who stood out from the rest.” Her cheery gaze floats in my direction and I freeze, almost unable to breathe.
“Damon, dear. Your interpretation was by far my favorite this week. Congratulations!” She shuffles over to me, and her smile reminds me of Josephine.
She hands me the chocolate bar, patting me on the shoulder.
“I can’t wait to see what you create next week. ”
I stare at her, unable to form an expression other than pure shock. “Th-Thanks.”
“Ayy,” Sage sings, elbowing me as Bella walks away. “Look at you go, Mr. Picasso.”
I roll my eyes, pocketing the chocolate bar as I stand up. “Have a good life, Sage.”
“I’ll see you next week!” She calls after me and I cringe, vowing to never step foot in this studio ever again.
Immediately, I take out my phone and call Emery.
“So? How was it?” she asks.
“I won a chocolate bar,” I say, deadpan. Her laughter crackles through the receiver. “I am never coming back here. I tried, and it’s not for me.”
Emery’s laughter dies out, her tone now serious. “Damon, it’s one class. You can’t give up after one class.”
I feel like a child. “But you don’t understand, Emery. There’s this—”
“Three. You’ve got to attend at least three classes before you quit,” she states. “Fair?”
I grumble, unable to say no to her. “Fine.”
But I’m changing seats.