22. Walker
Chapter 22
Walker
I shut off the shower, the steam thick in the small space. Usually the water is soothing, giving me time to think. Today, I come out of it chilled and empty despite turning the temperature to max.
I’ve been hollow all week, after I got over a few days of being pissed. Why am I still hiding? Because I’m still angry, and honestly, nobody seems to care. Not that I’ve given anyone much of a chance to tell me otherwise, but it’s not like I’ve moved to France. They could find me in my art studio. They could call or text or really do anything.
The only person who’s been trying to find me is Clara, but she’s not working too hard at it. I want to see her, but also, I don’t want to. I don’t need another reminder of how I’m failing her. Of how I’m not good enough, of how I’m not enough for her.
I towel off, glancing at my back in the mirror.
Her scratches have almost completely healed, the scabs nearly gone.
I run my fingers over the few dark slashes, careful not to knock them off.
Every day, the marks fade, and that night seems more like a dream, followed by a nightmare. I’d go back to that dream in an instant, and I have, I’ve replayed the whole damn night in my head over and over, every sigh, every cry, every beautiful minute locked on repeat whenever I let my mind wander.
When I go to the studio, even there I can’t escape it. Every damn drawing, every painting, they all turn into her. They’re the curve of her hip, the crease of her smile, the topaz ring that brightens the middle of her eye, they’re all there, in every piece I start, in every piece I can’t finish.
I turn away from the mirror, pushing it all away, but instead of vanishing, the nightmare that happened next plays in my mind.
The way her face froze as my words tore into her. The tears in her eyes that she willed to stay. The emptiness when I left and she didn’t follow. Because I’m not enough. I’m not worth it.
Tying my towel around my waist, I force myself to get on with the day. I’m most of the way to my room when footsteps patter down the hall. I walk faster—I’m not in the mood, not at all.
“Hey, man,” RJ calls, forcing me to pause and turn around. He has his towel in his arm, obviously on his way to go take a shower.
“Hey,” I say, inching toward my door .
RJ rubs the back of his neck, and I will myself not to fidget, waiting for him to get to whatever he needs to say. “I just wanted to ask, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, man,” I say, waving away his question with a grin.
“You don’t seem fine. You seem like you’re lit dynamite on a long fuse.”
The image of an exploding mountain pops into my head. Feels right. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks for checking.” I turn away, ending the conversation, making it to my door and unlocking it as another voice rumbles through the hallway.
“Walker, you’re being a pouty asshole,” Trips states, standing at the top of the stairs.
The urge to punch him flares, but there is zero chance I’d be able to take him in a fair fight. Yet another thing I can’t do. “What do you care as long as the Rubens gets done, perfect and on time?” I shoot back.
“And how is the Rubens coming?” he asks, a challenge in his stance that tells me he’s ready to lash out, but I don’t know where the sting is going to come from. I only know it’s imminent.
“It’s as good as it can be until I see the original in person. RJ’s working on getting me the correct materials, right?” I turn to RJ, startled to see him looking at me like I’m broken, like I’m something to be pitied.
He nods, but his eyes, goddamn it. One of my closest friends is looking at me like I’m a kid who just found out Santa Claus isn’t real.
Trips stalks down the hall. “Well, I need you functioning, Walker. This mopey bullshit has to end. This gig is serious. And it just got dangerous. Whatever is wrong with you, fix it. Yesterday. Got it?”
“Is that your version of a pep talk, Trips?”
“No. This is a friendly warning.”
“Of course. And the next time, it won’t be so friendly? Are you threatening to beat me up?”
Trips leans against the wall. “No, Walker. There is no next time. There’s just now. And right now, you need to get your head out of your ass, stop running, and fix shit with Clara. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.” And there’s the sting. Everyone knows I fucked shit up with Clara. No one else weaponized it, though.
“Now you’re giving me relationship advice? Really, Trips? When was the last time you dated anyone? What the hell do you know?” I take a step toward him, my anger stealing my better judgment.
RJ cuts in, and suddenly it’s worse. Everything is worse. Because now there are teams. Everyone else against me. “Walker, we know you. And you’re not yourself. We just want you, I don’t know, happier? Less brittle? Something needs to change.”
The grin I put on is tight across my cheeks, and I can tell it’s not convincing either of them. “I’m fine. Thank you both for your concern, but I’m fine. No worries.” I need to get out of this hallway. I need to leave this house, get back to the studio, and try to work. To finish something, anything. To at least be able to do one thing, even if I’m a useless prick with everything else, to finish one stupid piece without it turning into a half-done drawing of the girl I’m not good enough for. Just one place where I’m enough .
Neither of them says anything as I walk into my room, leaving them both staring at my back.
It’s not until the door clicks behind me that I realize they saw my scabs, the small secret thing just between Clara and me. They saw them. Fading evidence of the magnitude of my fuckup. I didn’t even last twenty-four hours with the best fucking thing that I ever could have had.
She’ll be better off with them, one of them, any of them.
I wipe a single angry tear off my cheek. Goddamn it.
Please. Just give me one thing. One little thing. Anything.