Chapter 11 #2
Maybe survival isn’t about control. Maybe it’s about learning to paint in the chaos.
I’m painting something that might be a person or might be a feeling or might be my own existential crisis manifested in acrylic.
Alex leans over. Studies it. “I love it.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” She’s genuine. That soft smile. “It’s interpretive. It’s emotional. It’s very you.”
“It looks like I sneezed paint onto a canvas.”
“It looks like freedom.” She goes back to her work. “Which is the point.”
We paint and draw in comfortable silence for a while. The wine helps. I’m not drunk—just warm. Relaxed. The kind of tipsy where everything feels slightly more possible and slightly less terrifying.
It’s dangerous, this feeling. This safety. Because I know it’s temporary. I know Marcus is still out there. I know Monday I’ll be back at City Hall, trapped in his office, wearing Dahlia’s ring and feeling the serpent spine warn me every time he gets too close.
But for now—for these two hours—I’m choosing this. This warmth. This laughter. This afternoon where the worst thing that can happen is that I paint badly.
I’m choosing joy while I still can.
Around us, other people are working. The older woman is very focused. The couple giggles quietly. The serious art student is, predictably, taking this way too seriously.
And the hot guy is just... there. Posing. Professional. Probably thinking about what he’s having for dinner later.
“Alright everyone!” Margot claps, shattering the moment. “Let’s take a short break. Ten minutes. Our model needs to rest.”
Hot guy grabs his robe. Ties it closed. Immediately the energy in the room shifts. People standing. Stretching. Chatting.
And he walks straight toward us.
Specifically toward Alex.
Oh no.
“Hey,” he says, that confident smile. Voice smooth. Practiced. “That’s really good work.”
He’s looking at Alex’s canvas. At her actually talented, genuinely impressive figure drawing.
“Thanks.” Alex smiles back. Warm but not flirty. Just friendly.
He leans in slightly. “You’ve done this before.”
“Art history minor in college.”
“It shows.” He’s definitely flirting. That energy. That lean. “I’m David, by the way.”
There’s a pause.
A significant pause.
Alex’s face changes. That smile freezing slightly.
“David?” she repeats.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t notice. Keeps going. “I model for a few different studios around the city. Haven’t seen you before though. I’d remember.”
Smooth. Very smooth.
I watch this play out. Watch Alex’s expression shift from friendly to calculating to something like resigned amusement.
“David,” she says again. Testing the name. Tasting how it sounds.
So. Many. Davids.
“That’s... a nice name,” she says carefully.
“Thanks. My parents thought so.” He grins. Oblivious. “So you come here often? Or was this your first time?”
“First time.” She sets down her brush. That deliberate movement. The one that means she’s made a decision. “And probably last time. This was more of a birthday thing.”
“Oh, it’s your birthday?”
“The 18th.”
“Happy birthday.” He’s still standing too close. Still radiating that model confidence. “You know, there’s a great coffee place around the corner. If you wanted to grab something after class. Talk about art. Or not art. Whatever.”
She looks at him. Really looks at him. Takes in the dark hair, the sharp jawline, the confidence that probably works on most people.
“That’s really sweet,” she says. And means it. “But I’m actually turning over a new leaf. Starting with not dating anyone named David.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Long story.” She glances at me. I’m trying very hard not to laugh. “Short version: I have terrible taste in Davids. All of them. Every single one.”
“That’s... oddly specific.”
“You have no idea.” She picks up her wine glass. “But thank you. Really. You’re very attractive and probably very nice. I’m just... working on my life choices.”
He stands there for a second. Processing. Then laughs. “Fair enough. Can’t argue with self-improvement.”
“Exactly.” She raises her glass. “To better decisions.”
“To better decisions.” He nods, accepting the rejection with surprising grace. “Enjoy the rest of class.”
He walks away. Back to the platform. Back to his professional model zone.
Alex turns to me. Her whole face lights up with victory.
“I’m proud of you,” I say.
And I am. Because I’ve watched her date broken artists for years, thinking she could fix them. Thinking she needed to save someone to be worth loving. And she just turned down a hot, charming guy because his name matched her pattern.
She’s choosing herself. Not the fixer. Not the healer. Not the woman who makes herself smaller so someone else can grow.
Learning the same lesson I’m learning—that survival means recognizing your patterns and changing them. That we don’t have to keep being the people our traumas made us.
“I’m proud of me too.” She takes a drink. “New leaf, Dylan. I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Me too.” The words come out quieter than I mean them to.
She looks at me. Really looks. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen. About your intuition. About Dahlia.” My throat tightens. The armor trying to come back up. I push through it. “About everything.”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand. Quick. Hard. “And I’m sorry I left you alone with it. I shouldn’t have shut you out like that.”
“We’re a mess.”
“The biggest mess.” She grins through the shine in her eyes. “But we’re our mess.”
“Alright everyone!” Margot calls, cutting through the moment. “Let’s resume. Final pose for today.”
David drops the robe again. Takes his position.
“Dandelions?” I whisper.
“Dandelions,” she whispers back.
We clink our wine glasses together. Both of us getting misty-eyed in a figure drawing class while a naked man poses fifteen feet away.
This is our life now.
I pick up my brush. Look at my abstract disaster of a canvas.
“Fuck it,” I mutter. Add more color. More chaos. More whatever the hell this is becoming.
Alex is laughing beside me. Actually laughing while she now paints.
A sound I’d do anything to protect. To keep in this world.
We’re tipsy. We’re terrible at this. We’re exactly where we need to be.
For this moment, at least. For this Sunday afternoon where we get to pretend the world isn’t hunting us. Where Marcus isn’t stalking me and Dom isn’t controlling my career and Dahlia isn’t waiting for us to hear her.
Tomorrow we’ll go back to it. Back to the investigation and the fear and the danger.
But today—right now—we’re just two idiots painting badly and drinking wine and choosing joy despite everything trying to take it from us.
And maybe that’s the most important thing we can do.