17. Damon
Damon
The scent of turpentine and linseed oil hangs heavy in the studio, blending with the faint hum of voices as students chatter between strokes of their brushes.
The canvas in front of me is half-finished, an abstract mess of dark blues and blacks that I’ve been working on for the last hour. It’s aggressive and chaotic—the kind of piece I don’t even have to think too hard about because my hands know exactly what they’re doing before my mind catches up.
I’m just about to dip my brush into the black paint when my phone buzzes on the desk beside me. At first, I consider ignoring the call, but then I see the name: Mom.
The name makes my stomach twist in a way I can’t describe. I glance at the clock—still twenty minutes of class left. Fuck it. I step away from my easel, keeping my head down as I slip into the hallway and swipe to answer.
“Hey, Mom,” I say and lean against the wall, keeping my voice low as I answer the call.
“Damon,” her voice is warm, the same tone she uses when she’s worried about me. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically, but she’s never been the one to let me off easy.
“Don’t you ‘I’m fine’ me,” Her tone sharpens, the kind of mom voice that says I know you’re full of shit . “How are you really?”
I huff out a laugh, running a hand through my hair. “I’m in class, Mom. You caught me in the middle of painting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… I wanted to hear your voice. You’ve been so quiet since I left, and I got worried.”
There’s a pause, the kind that only comes when there’s too much to say and not enough words to say it. It’s weird, talking to her like this. Before, I couldn’t even bring myself to pick up the phone.
But five weeks ago, I called her in the middle of one of my worst mental breaks, my voice shaking as I told her I needed help. Again. I was standing on the edge of something I didn’t know how to come back from, and she was the one person I trusted to pull me back.
She flew down the next day and stayed with me while I checked myself into the clinic. She sat with me through the intake process, her hand on my shoulder the whole time, like she was physically holding me together.
She didn’t ask why. She didn’t press. She just stayed.
“I’m trying, Mom, and I’m getting there. It’s hard, but… I’m feeling better,” I answer honestly. “Better than I was.”
“You sound better,” she says, and I can hear the relief in her voice. “I was worried after…”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. “Me too. But I’ll be fine, Mom. Thank you for worrying about me.”
“Always, sweetheart. You know I’m here whenever you need me to be,” she says gently and I can hear the faint clatter of dishes in the background. She’s probably in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast.
“I’m proud of you, Damon,” she suddenly says. “For asking for help. That took a lot of strength.”
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. “It didn’t feel like strength,” I admit quietly. “It felt like falling apart.”
“Sometimes falling apart is what it takes to put yourself back together,” she says. “And you’ve come so far already. I just… I want you to know how much I love you, okay? And how proud I am of the man you’re becoming.”
I press the heel of my palm against my eye, blinking away the sting. “Thanks, Mom. That… that means a lot.”
She knows I’m gay. She’s known since I was sixteen when I came out to her in the kitchen one night while Dad was at church. She cried, hugged me, and swore she’d keep my secret until I was ready to tell him. That was nearly eight years ago, and she’s kept her word ever since.
But my father still found out in my third year at Blackthorne. He cut me off and called me a “demon” for being who I was and told me I wasn’t allowed to ever come home again.
Then Caleb died soon after, and I went on a spiral that caused me to be checked into a clinic back home. I had to request a pause on my scholarship, and because one of the biggest art houses in the city was displaying my work already, I was granted the pause.
Trust me, I know how fucking lucky I am. Blackthorne loves showing off that they churn out the best of the best.
“You scared me, you know,” she says, pulling me back to the present. “But I’m so proud of you for taking that step. For getting help.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “It was either that or… I don’t know…”
We both know what I mean.
“But you made the choice, and that’s what matters. Are you still going to your sessions?”
“Yeah,” I say, exhaling slowly. “Twice a week. They’ve been… good. Hard, but good.”
“That makes me so happy to hear, Damon. Really.”
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. “You’re so sappy, Mom.”
“Guilty as charged,” she says, laughing softly. “And how’s everything else? School, life? Anyone special you’re not telling me about?”
I bark out a laugh, the question catching me off guard. “Mom, come on.”
“What? I’m just asking,” she says innocently. “You never know.”
“There’s no one,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue before I can stop it.
“Damon.”
“I swear,” I say quickly, cutting her off. “No one you need to worry about, anyway.”
She hums, clearly unconvinced but willing to let it go. “Well, whoever he is, I hope he’s good to you.”
The words hit like a knife to my chest, and I can’t help but picture Roman—his hazel eyes, his sharp tongue, the way he looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out and tear me apart at the same time.
I shake the thought away, clearing my throat. “I’ll let you know when there’s someone worth talking about.”
“Fair enough,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “But don’t wait too long to call me, okay? I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Mom,” I say, my voice softer now. “Hey, can I call you later tonight? I’m still in class, and the professor might notice I’m gone soon.”
“Of course,” she says, her tone warm. “Call me anytime, sweetheart. I’ll be here.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I love you, Damon.”
“Love you, too,” I say before ending the call and sliding the phone back into my pocket.
I lean against the wall for a moment, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Talking to her always makes things feel a little easier, like maybe the weight on my shoulders isn’t so heavy after all.
But as I push off the wall and head back to class, the familiar chaos in my chest creeps back in. Because no matter how much progress I make, some things— some people —are harder to let go of than others.
Class ends soon after, the Henley I’m wearing splattered with blues and blacks, a visual reminder of how I didn’t give a shit about keeping things neat today. I roll my sleeves up higher, the paint clinging to my hands as I pull out my pack of smokes.
My lighter clicks and the first drag burns in the best way, grounding me just enough to dull the edges of my thoughts. The paint-splattered shirt, the cigarette, Caleb’s old leather jacket slung over my shoulder—it’s a look that screams, “ don’t fucking talk to me ,” and right now, that’s exactly the energy I want to give off.
My last class of the day is done and I’ve got a session later on. The thought makes my chest feel tight, but it’s better than the alternative… I’d rather not hear those voices again. I start walking toward the parking lot, and as I round the corner, exhaling a stream of smoke, I see him.
Roman’s sitting on the edge of the fountain, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging low. Even from this distance, I can tell he looks like shit, and like he hasn’t eaten in days or even slept.
My first instinct is to look away, to pretend I didn’t see him. I can’t afford to be worried about Roman Bishop when I’ve got my own shit to deal with.
But I am.
Something in the way he’s sitting, looking so fucking defeated, makes my stomach twist. It’s even worse knowing I’m part of the reason he looks like this. I take another drag of my cigarette, slowing my steps as I watch him. He looks up then, and at that split second our eyes meet, it’s a jolt straight through my heart.
His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s something raw there, something I can’t quite place. Guilt? Anger? Pain?
And fuck me, he’s still hot. Even like this—especially like this. With his messy hair underneath the backward baseball cap, his sharp jawline tense, and his broad shoulders hunched under the weight of whatever the hell is eating at him. He looks like a goddamn walking tragedy.
I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s my own guilt or my own fucking stupidity, but I dip my head toward him in greeting.
His reaction is immediate: eyes narrowing, mouth tightening as he glares at me like I just insulted his entire bloodline. I hold his gaze, my cigarette hanging loosely between my fingers as we have a silent face-off. If he wants to glare, fine. I’m not in the mood to fight him, not right now.
Without a word, he gets up and walks off in the opposite direction. I let him go, and even though his ass looks delicious as hell in those jeans, I hate seeing him walk away from me.
“Don’t,” I mutter under my breath.
Don’t follow him. Don’t worry about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t get dragged into whatever the fuck is going on with him.
Just… don’t.