Chapter 4
Lilah
The coffee shop is my sanctuary, small, locally owned, run by an elderly couple who make the best espresso in the state.
"This place is..." Marcus looks around, taking in the mismatched furniture, the local art on the walls, the complete lack of corporate aesthetic.
"Chaotic?"
"I was going to say charming."
"Liar. You were going to say disorganized." I order my usual, triple shot latte with oat milk. "But that's okay. Organized people need to experience chaos sometimes. Builds character."
He orders black coffee. Of course he does.
We find a table in the corner. I pull out my sketchbook, flipping to the pages where I've been trying to recreate my destroyed work from memory.
"This was the centerpiece," I show him a sketch. "Oil on canvas, six feet by four feet. It took me three months. I call it 'Breaking Point.'"
"What's it about?"
"Generational trauma. Specifically, my grandmother's experience as an immigrant.
The way pain gets passed down, transformed, until it's unrecognizable but still present.
" I trace the lines of the sketch. "The canvas had layers, oil, acrylic, charcoal, even some mixed media elements.
Photos of my grandmother embedded in the paint. "
"Photos that can't be replaced."
"Exactly. I have copies, but they won't have the same history. The same weight." I flip to another page. "This was a sculpture. Wire and paper and found objects. 'Inherited Burdens.' Same theme, different medium."
Marcus studies my sketches with an intensity that makes me self-conscious.
"What?" I ask.
"Your work is about family. Connection. History."
"Very observant." I point out.
"So destroying it wasn't just destroying art. It was destroying your family's story."
"Yeah. That's exactly what it was." I say in a whisper, because it’s so very true.
"That's not vandalism. That's personal assault."
"Which is why I'm pretty sure it was Chelsea. She knows how much my grandmother means to me. I know these pieces are personal." I close the sketchbook. "But I can't prove it. Security footage is gone. No witnesses. Nothing."
"Security footage can be recovered. It takes expertise and time, but it's possible."
"You know someone?"
"I know several someones. Tech majors who owe me favors." He pulls out his phone, making notes. "I'll reach out. See if they can recover anything from the gallery's server."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. It might not work." He looks up from his phone. "Tell me about the other pieces. Everything you had planned."
So I do. I spend the next hour walking him through my entire thesis show. Every painting, every sculpture, every carefully planned installation. He takes notes, asks questions, occasionally makes suggestions that are actually helpful.
"This piece, the mixed media one about language barriers. Could you simplify it? Focus on one element instead of three?"
"That changes the entire concept—"
"I know. But it also makes it feasible to complete in two weeks. You can't recreate everything exactly. So you adapt. Evolve the concept to fit the constraints."
"That's actually... not terrible advice." He really does think about everything, I knows what will work and what needs to be changed.
"Try not to sound so surprised."
"Can't help it. I'm used to you avoiding me, not offering helpful creative suggestions."
His expression shifts. Guilt? Regret? "I'm sorry. For avoiding you. For making you feel like you weren't worth my time."
"Were you ever going to tell me why? Or were you just going to avoid me forever?"
"Forever seemed easier."
"Easier than what?" I ask.
"Than admitting I've been attracted to you since that gallery opening freshman year.
When you tell me I should feel more and think less.
" He's not looking at me now, focused on his coffee.
"I don't know how to feel more. I've spent my entire life building walls, creating systems and controlling variables.
You're every variable I can't control. And that's—"
"Terrifying. You said." I reach across the table, making him look at me. "But maybe terrifying isn't always bad. Maybe sometimes terrifying is where the good stuff happens."
"That's a very artistic way of thinking about it."
"And your way is?"
"Risk assessment. Cost-benefit analysis. Careful planning." He finally meets my eyes. "But maybe you're right. Maybe some things can't be planned."
"Is this one of those things?"
"I don't know. I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Been honest. About wanting something I can't control."
My heart is doing complicated things in my chest. "And what do you want?"
"Right now? To help you save your thesis show. To prove that Chelsea can't destroy you. To—" He stops.
"To what?"
"To see what happens if I stop avoiding you. Stop running from the one thing that scares me most."
"And what scares you most?"
"You. Us. The possibility that if I let you in, I won't want to let you go."
The confession hangs between us, honest and vulnerable and everything Marcus Chen isn't supposed to be.
I’ve liked Marcus for so long, and now all this is happening all at once, I don’t know what to say or feel. But do I want to run away from something I’ve been wanting for so long?
I lick my lips, looking around the coffee shop, even though I know the silence is dragging out between us.
“You know I’ve liked you since you spoke to me at the party three years ago, I thought maybe…
then you left with my friend.” I stop and take a sip of my drink, giving myself time to think of the words.
“That hurt, the guy I liked, who I thought liked me, left a party with my friend, and I hated you for it.”
Marcus looks around avoiding my eyes. “I liked you, I still do. At the party you were…you and I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
Now I have no idea what to say to him. He still likes me, but do I want to get involved with him now while he's helping me?
I lick my lips, shake my head a little, thinking about what to say.
"So don't let me go," I hear myself say.
"Lilah—"
"I'm serious. You want to help with my show? Fine. But you have to commit. All in. No running when it gets uncomfortable or emotional or messy."
"I'm not good at being messy."
"Then learn. Because my life is messy. My art is messy. I'm messy and if you can't handle that, tell me now before I let you in."
He's quiet for a long moment. Calculating. Planning. Doing all the Marcus things.
"Okay."
"Okay?" I question him, because it didn’t sound convincing.
"I'm in. All in. Even when it's messy." He extends his hand across the table. "Partners?"
I look at him for a moment, because even though he’s said, I'm still not one hundred percent sure he means it, but I take his hand. Feel the warmth, the strength, the slight tremor that suggests he's just as nervous as I am.
"Partners," I agree.
We shake on it, and something shifts. An understanding. A promise.
This isn't just about my thesis anymore.
This is about two people who've been circling each other for three years finally deciding to stop running.
It's terrifying and exhilarating and completely unplanned.
Exactly the way the best things in life happen.