Chapter 2
Lilah
I'm rage-crying in the supply closet when Isla finds me.
"He's gone," she says gently. "You can come out." The look on her face is soft.
"I don't want to come out. I want to live in this closet forever and never face the fact that my entire life's work is destroyed."
"Dramatic much?" I hear the humor in her tone, trying to lighten the mood.
"It's not dramatic when it's true." I wipe my face angrily. "A year of work, Isla. Gone. And I have two weeks to somehow recreate it or I won't graduate."
"So we will figure it out. You, me, Lennox, Ivy—we'll all help."
"You guys don't know anything about art."
"No, but we know how to support our friends." She sits next to me on the floor. "And before you say you don't need help, remember that refusing help is just pride. And pride doesn't recreate destroyed paintings."
"I really hate when you're logical."
"I learned from the best." She pauses. "Why do you hate Marcus so much?"
"I don't hate him."
"You just told him to get the hell out of your gallery after he offered to help."
The details come into sharp focus in that hyperaware way that happens when emotions run high. The particular quality of the light. The ambient sounds that normally fade into background noise. The temperature of the air against my skin.
"That's different. He's—" I stop. How do I explain Marcus Chen?
"He's what?"
"He's perfect and I'm a mess. He looks at me like I'm a problem that needs solving instead of a person." I pick at a dried paint stain on my overalls. "Do you know how exhausting it is? Being around someone who makes you feel like you're doing everything wrong just by existing?"
"I don't think that's what he's doing."
"Then what is he doing? Because he's been avoiding me for three years, Isla.
Three years. I thought maybe I'd done something to offend him freshman year, but no. He just decided I wasn't worth his time." I have no idea what I did to him. At one party we were talking, joking, and I really thought he was nice, someone who I might even go on a date with, and then he showed me he’s just like the other boys on campus. A player, a boy who doesn’t care about anything but his dick. He walked away from the party with one of my friends, and it crushed me. Since that night I’ve hated him.
"Or," Isla says carefully, "he decided you were too dangerous to his carefully controlled life."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means Marcus Chen doesn't avoid problems. He solves them. But you? He avoids you. Which suggests you're not a problem. You're something else entirely."
I don't want to think about what "something else" might mean. I don't want to remember freshman year, when I first saw Marcus across the gallery at that opening night event.
Wearing a suit, looking uncomfortable and out of place among the artists and their messy emotions. But he'd been studying my painting, really studying it with an intensity that made my breath catch.
I approached him. Asked what he thought.
He'd looked at me with those dark, careful eyes and said: "It makes me feel something I don't have words for."
"That's kind of the point of art," I'd replied.
"I don't like not having words for things."
"Then maybe you should feel more and think less."
He'd smiled, this small, uncertain smile and for a moment, I'd thought...
But then his phone rang. Someone needing his help with something and he'd excused himself and left. And after that, every time I saw him on campus, he'd find a reason to be somewhere else.
Three years of careful avoidance. Three years of wondering what I'd done wrong.
"I need to focus on the show," I tell Isla. "Not on Marcus Chen and whatever his deal is."
"Fair. But Lilah? He was taking photos. Of the damage. I saw him."
"So?"
"So Marcus doesn't do anything without a reason. He's already planning something."
"I don't want his plans. I want—" I stop.
What do I want?
I want to rewind twelve hours and stop whoever did this. I want my art back. I want to graduate. I want to not feel like I'm drowning in impossible odds.
"I want to figure out who did this," I say finally. "Because this wasn't random. Someone knew exactly which pieces to destroy. Which sculptures to break. This was personal."
"Do you have any ideas? Anyone who might want to sabotage you?"
I think about it. "Chelsea."
"Chelsea Winters? The girl who tried to sabotage me and Sebastian freshman year?"
"The same. She applied for the same senior show slot I got. She was furious when I was chosen instead. Said my work was 'derivative' and 'overly emotional.'"
"That sounds like a motive."
"Maybe. But I can't prove it and even if I could, it doesn't help me recreate a year of work in two weeks."
"So we focus on both. We investigate Chelsea and we figure out how to recreate your show."
"I can't ask you to—"
"You're not asking. I'm offering. That's what friends do." Isla stands and offers me her hand. "Now come on. Let's go document what's salvageable. And then we're going to make a plan."
"I hate plans."
"I know. But sometimes even chaotic artists need a little structure."
She pulls me to my feet, and we head back into the gallery. The damage looks worse in the afternoon light. More deliberate. More cruel.
My phone buzzes. Email notification.
From: Marcus Chen
Subject: Gallery Incident - Resource Assessment
Attached: 47 photos, 3 documents
I open it reluctantly.
Lilah,
I documented the damage before leaving. Attached are photos from multiple angles, an inventory of destroyed pieces based on your posted show schedule, and a preliminary assessment of salvageable materials.
Also attached: List of art supply vendors who offer emergency delivery, contact information for three other art students who've offered to help (I asked around), and a proposed timeline for reconstruction.
I know you said you don't want my help. But you have it anyway. Delete this email if you want. Or use the resources. Your choice.
-Marcus
I stare at the email. At the attachments. At the fact that he's already done all of this in the hour since I told him to leave.
"He's already started," I tell Isla.
"Of course he has. That's what Marcus does."
"I told him I didn't want his help."
"And he's giving it to you anyway. Because he can't help himself. Problem-solving is his love language."
"That's not—" I stop. Is it?
I open the attachments. The photos are thorough, systematic. The inventory is accurate down to the smallest detail. The timeline is... actually feasible.
Not easy. But it is possible.
If I follow his plan. If I accept his help. If I let Marcus Chen into my chaotic disaster of a life.
"I don't know if I can do this," I admit.
"Work with Marcus?"
"Trust him. Let him in. Risk—" I stop.
"Risk what?"
Risk caring about someone who might decide I'm too much work. Too messy. Too emotional. Too everything.
"Nothing. It's nothing." I close the email. "I'll think about it."
But I know I'm lying. I'm already thinking about it. Already considering his plan. Already imagining what it would be like to let Marcus Chen help me.
And that terrifies me almost as much as losing my thesis show.
Because letting Marcus in means letting him see all of me. The chaos, the mess, the emotions I paint instead of processing.
And if he sees all of that and still walks away?
That would destroy me more completely than any vandalism ever could.