Chapter Eleven
Brittany
It takes nearly forty-five minutes of navigating NYC traffic to make it to my new apartment, and when I’m finally parked in a spot nearest the entrance for the service elevator, I breathe out a heavy sigh.
“This is why I don’t even have a car in the city anymore.” Weston laughs, tipping his head back against the headrest. “I left it back home in California. I figure if I ever need it, I’ll have it shipped here. I just don’t even want the option to drive.”
“I don’t blame you,” I agree, my shoulders slumping under my jacket. “And now we have to unload everything.”
“It’s not that much.” Weston pushes open the car door as I pop the back hatch. He jogs around to the back and starts loading his arms with my things.
I spot Parker across the street, arms folded across his chest, foot tapping against the sidewalk as he stands next to his car. He’s checking his watch for what I’m guessing is the hundredth time.
Part of me feels guilty for making him wait, but another part—the part that’s still buzzing from forty minutes of conversation with Weston—doesn’t regret our coffee detour one bit.
I haven’t laughed that much in months, maybe longer.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Parker calls out. “Did you two stop for a full-course meal, or just coffee?”
“Sorry,” I say. “The line was crazy.”
“Uh-huh.” Parker eyes our coffee cups with suspicion. “Must’ve been some line.”
“My fault. I insisted we get the best coffee in the city,” Weston insists.
“He’s very persuasive,” I add, trying to help Weston out. “Very compelling arguments about the importance of proper hydration during physical labor.”
“Coffee is dehydrating,” Parker points out dryly.
“Details.” I wave dismissively. “Let’s get moving. I’m dying to get settled.”
I grab the same box I carried out, and lock up the car, awkwardly fumbling with the key fob.
“Show me to the service elevator,” Parker grunts, arms full, nodding to the door.
Since I really don’t know where I’m going, I completely wing it, following the signs until we come to the oversized door. I use my knee to punch the Up button, and then step back, sandwiched in between Parker and Weston. The doors finally slide open, and we step inside.
I try not to grimace as the weight of the box makes my arms shake.
“Want me to take that?” Weston asks quietly, noticing my struggle.
“I’ve got it,” I insist, though my biceps are screaming in protest.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts his position slightly, casually supporting part of the box’s weight with his arm while pretending not to. It’s a small gesture, but it touches me—helping without making me feel incapable.
As we reach the seventh floor, Parker turns to me. “Are you sure you wanna live here?”
“Well, considering I just signed a year lease, I don’t think I have a choice.” I laugh, shaking my head as we navigate down the hallway to Apartment 714. My apartment. The thought sends a flutter of both excitement and anxiety through my stomach.
This is really happening. I’m starting over.
“Aww, are you a little sad she’s moving out?” Weston looks past me to Parker, who’s trailing behind us. “I think you’re sad.”
“No. No way.” Parker has an overconfident tone, and I can’t lie, it makes me feel good inside. I know it’s his way of communicating that he will miss me. “She’s a grown woman; she needs to have her own place.”
Weston and Parker continue to go back and forth, while I carefully punch the code into the door. I push it in when it unlocks, and breathe in the unfamiliar scent of cinnamon and something else. The whole place is clean, but it’s not home yet.
“Whoa, that picture…” Parker’s eyes grow wide as he looks at the strange bear-like creature hanging on the wall. “That is … That is different.”
“Isn’t it though?” Weston chuckles, eyeing me.
Something about the intensity of his ocean blue eyes makes my heart race in my chest, and I look away quickly, searching for a place to set my box of things. The apartment came partially furnished, which was nice, but the movers still have more to bring.
And four hours later, my apartment is filled to the brim with the rest of my things.
I brush my hair from my face as Weston and Parker give the movers a final thanks, and I’m left standing in a sea of boxes.
I have no idea what’s in half of them, having paid movers to box it all up from my old place—back when I was on cloud nine about moving in with Cal. After he begged me to break my lease.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
“You okay?” Parker’s voice cuts into my thoughts as I’m zoned out on one of the boxes labeled fragile. I have no idea what’s even in it. I couldn’t even come up with a good guess.
Ugh.
“I just have a lot of unpacking to do.” I look up at my brother and his best friend, struck by the way they’re both standing there, staring at me.
“Do you want some help unboxing?” Weston asks, his voice bright—much brighter than the look of horror on my brother’s face. Clearly, my brother doesn’t like this idea.
And considering I have no idea what’s even in the boxes…
“I think I’ll just start later. I’m really tired.” I give them both my best smile, though it doesn’t take long to realize that I am, indeed, exhausted.
“That’s fair,” Parker says. “I guess we’ll get out of your hair then.”
“You’re the best,” I tell him. “Seriously, Parker. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you these past few weeks.”
Something softens in his expression. “Yeah, well. What else are big brothers for?”
I nod. “I’ll call you sometime this week.” I weave through the mess to see them to the door. Weston trails behind Parker, and I can’t help but notice the way he’s stealing glances at me. It’s almost as if he needs to say something.
But he never does.
Well, other than to tell me to have a good evening.
I close the door behind them, then spin around, resting my back against the wall. Exhausted, I take in the chic apartment. It really is a nice place, but now that all my things are here…
I’m going to have to do some major decluttering.
With a sigh, I head for the kitchen to get a drink of water, and as I do, I notice an envelope sitting on the counter with my name on it. With an intrigued frown, I pick it up, and tear it open. It’s a housewarming card.
Really, Parker?
However, as I open it and a gift card falls out, I can’t help but smile down at the words.
Brittany,
Please promise me that you’ll replace the bear creature on the wall. Enjoy your new place, and don’t be a stranger. I expect to see the replacement within a week.
Best,
Weston
A giggle slips from my lips as I set the card down and pick up the gift card. It’s such a thoughtful gesture…
And it leaves me feeling giddy.
Three days later, I’m standing in the entrance of an art supply store, clutching the gift card from my brother’s best friend like it’s some kind of lifeline.
The automatic doors slide shut behind me, and the scent of wood, paint, and possibility envelops me. It’s been years since I’ve set foot in a store like this. The thought makes my stomach twist with something between anticipation and guilt.
Paintbrushes in all sizes stand in neat rows, their wooden handles gleaming under fluorescent lights. Canvas boards and stretched canvases lean against the shelves. Tubes of paint—acrylics, oils, watercolors—arranged by color create a rainbow effect that makes my fingers itch to create something.
“Need help finding anything?” A store employee appears beside me, his name tag reading “Assistant Manager.”
“No, thanks,” I say, offering a polite smile. “Just browsing.”
He nods and moves away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and memories.
The last time I painted was before I met Cal—a small landscape of Central Park in autumn, all fiery oranges and deep reds.
My mom has it hanging in her living room, though Cal once commented that it looked “amateurish.” After that, my brushes slowly migrated to the back of the closet, and then into a storage box, and then …
nowhere. I don’t even know if I still have them.
My fingers trail along the shelf of canvases, settling on a medium-sized one that feels right. Not too ambitious, but big enough to make a statement. Next come the brushes. I grab a variety pack made by my favorite brand, filled with different sizes and shapes.
The paint is harder to choose. I stare at the colors, each one speaking to me in a different way.
The dark blues remind me of the lake my dad used to take Parker and me to when we were kids.
The warm yellows bring to mind summer afternoons sprawled on a blanket in the park, reading case studies for class.
The deep reds, well, those just make me think of the wine I drank with Weston that night at the Italian restaurant.
I toss a set of basic colors into my basket, then reach for a few extra colors I can’t quite walk away from. A drop cloth goes in last. The total climbs faster than I expect, but Weston’s gift card takes care of most of it, and I don’t hesitate to cover the rest.
By the time I step outside, something feels different. Lighter. Like, for once, I made a choice that was just mine, not shaped by anyone else’s expectations or opinions.
The subway ride back to my apartment—Apartment 714, which still feels weird to say—gives me too much time to think about how easily I let a part of myself slip away.
About the strange reality of being single again, making choices based only on what I want.
Even now, three days into this new place, everything feels both liberating and terrifying.
And then there’s Weston. His thoughtfulness caught me completely off guard.
I try not to linger on that dinner after ice skating. Or the way he steadied me when I almost fell. Or how his jacket smelled when he draped it over my shoulders. Because those thoughts lead to places I’m not ready to go.
I’m not ready to go anywhere with anyone right now.
My apartment welcomes me with the distinctive look of a place half moved into. Boxes still line one wall of the living room. The furniture is arranged—thanks to Weston and Parker’s heavy lifting—but there are no pictures on the walls. Except for one.
The bear.
I set my bags down and stare at it. The painting looks even worse now than it did when I first saw it.
Is it even a bear? The more I look, the less certain I am.
Maybe it’s a wolf. Or a very angry shrub.
Whatever it is, it’s unsettling, with dark swirls and jagged lines that make it look almost menacing.
“You’re coming down today,” I inform it, unpacking my supplies.
I spread the drop cloth on the floor beneath the painting, arranging my new brushes and paints with care.
It feels like a ritual. Like I’m preparing for something sacred.
Which is ridiculous … it’s just painting.
But as I stand here, looking at the blank canvas I’ve propped against the wall, I can’t help but feel like this is significant somehow.
I take down the bear painting, setting it aside. “No hard feelings,” I tell it, “but you’re a bit of a downer.”
The empty wall space seems to breathe easier.
Or maybe that’s just me, projecting.
I position my canvas on the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of it. The pristine white surface stares back at me, simultaneously inviting and intimidating.
What if I’ve forgotten how?
The thought sneaks in before I can stop it. What if I’ve lost whatever small talent I once had? What if I make something even worse than the bear?
I pick up a brush, then set it down again. Pick up a tube of paint, then place it beside me, untouched. My hand hovers over the canvas, hesitant.
This is stupid. It’s just paint. It’s just for me. No one else ever has to see it.
But the fear persists. It’s the same feeling I had the first time I stood up in moot court, the same tightness I felt in my chest when I moved out of my parents’ place. The same flutter of panic when I realized I had to start over after Cal.
The fear of beginning again.
I take a deep breath, squeezing a dollop of cobalt blue onto my palette. I dip my brush into it, then add a touch of white to lighten the shade. Without overthinking it, I press the brush to canvas, making a long, sweeping stroke from one corner to the other.
The first mark breaks the spell. I add another stroke, then another, working quickly now. The movements are clumsy at first, my hand remembering how to hold a brush while my mind tries to catch up.
But then something shifts. Like riding a bike, my body remembers what my conscious mind has forgotten. My strokes become more confident, the colors blending on the canvas in ways that please me.
I lose track of time as I work. The light changes in the apartment, shadows lengthening across the floor. I don’t notice the cramp in my hand or the stiffness in my back from sitting too long in one position. All I see are the colors taking form, creating something from nothing.
I don’t have a plan for what I’m painting.
It starts as abstract swirls of blue and teal, reminiscent of water.
But then I add earth tones—warm browns and subtle greens—that gradually shape themselves into something like a shoreline.
A horizon line emerges, and above it, a sky filled with clouds tinged pink and gold with the sunset.
It’s not a specific place I’ve been, more like a feeling, a memory. Something half-remembered from childhood or dreamed about on restless nights. As I work, thoughts flow through me, unhindered by the usual constraints of logic and reason that dominate my professional life.
I think about how much I’ve changed since I was the girl who used to paint all the time. Somewhere along the way, creative expression gave way to law school and the steady climb of a career. And then there was Cal, setting the rhythm of my days until I almost forgot what my own sounded like.
“This is me,” I murmur to the canvas, adding highlights to the water. “This is the part of myself I forgot about.”
My phone buzzes somewhere in the apartment, but I ignore it. For once, the constant pull of messages and emails and notifications doesn’t feel urgent.
Nothing feels more important than finishing this painting.
As I add the final touches—a deeper shadow here, a brighter reflection there—I feel a sense of accomplishment that has nothing to do with billable hours or winning arguments. This is different. Personal. A private victory.
I sit back on my heels, brush still in hand, and look at what I’ve created. It’s not perfect. The perspective is a little off in one corner, and I’ve overworked some areas, trying to get them right.
But it’s mine.
And it’s a vast improvement over the creepy bear.