Chapter 6
Chapter six
EMMA EASTON
Soft, golden morning light spills through the expansive studio windows, warming the wood floors. The air smells like salt, citrus cleaner, and acrylic paint. Nova sleeps near the door, paws twitching in some dream, her tail flicking against the wall every few minutes.
A week has gone by since I spent an entire night crying over my ex boyfriend.
Heather has been so supportive, checking in on me multiple times a day.
It’s sweet, but also a little annoying. I love her anyway.
She knows how careless I can be when it comes to Jude.
The only time my parents truly grounded me was when I refused to come home at our agreed-upon curfew.
I was so in love with that boy, that I became someone else for a while.
Maybe he was always someone who had a bit of a rebellious streak.
Maybe I should have seen his drug dependence coming…
I shake my head, willing the thoughts away with a heavy sigh.
My side of the building is airy and open, more studio than office.
Two deep green velvet couches sit beneath the tall windows, arranged around a low coffee table cluttered with sketchbooks, charcoal tins, and a few abandoned brushes I’ll clean later.
Canvases lean against nearly every wall—some blank, some mid-process, some finished pieces I’m not ready to part with.
Sunlight hits the one on the easel now, making the wet strokes look like they’re still moving.
Co-owning this place genuinely feels like cheating at adulthood. I get to help people through art, and I get to bring Nova with me every single day. She has her own plush dog bed tucked beside my storage cabinet, but she prefers wandering between clients, collecting pets like payment.
The rest of the space beyond the French divider doors is Dr. Cassandra Waters’ domain.
Her side is sleeker, quieter: soft neutral rugs, tidy bookshelves, framed diplomas, the faint scent of lavender from her ever-burning diffuser.
Psychiatry, structure, grounding. My studio: expression, mess, release.
Together we make a strange sort of harmony.
I joined the practice last year, merging my therapy work with painting.
It was a leap I didn’t think I’d be allowed to take.
Cass already owned the building, but her husband, one of my professors in college, loved my thesis on creative expression as emotional processing.
He pushed her to reach out, and when she offered me a partnership, I said yes before she even finished the proposal.
It was, without exaggeration, a dream I didn’t realize I’d been waiting for.
Across from me, Cal studies his canvas. His brush trembles slightly in his hand, a streak of navy bleeding into the gray sea he’s painting. His jaw tightens, but his blue eyes stay on the storm he’s creating.
“Too dark?” he mutters. He’s fifty-two, but doesn’t look a day over forty. Years in the military have shaped him into a rugged man with gentle eyes.
I shake my head. “No. Storms are allowed to be dark, Cal.”
He nods, lips pressed together as he runs a hand over his short brown hair. “Feels...messy.”
“Messy’s good,” I say with a soft shrug, reaching for my own brush. “Means you’re not holding anything back. I like to say that art is the truth our souls are trying to tell us.”
We paint in silence for a while. He tells me, after a while, that the sea reminds him of good things when he’s struggling with the bad memories of being overseas.
I don’t push. I just add a streak of white to the horizon and tell him that sometimes, painting the thing that haunts us gives it less power.
I’ve learned that some clients just want someone to sit with them while they pour their souls onto the canvas. Others barely touch the art and talk to me about what keeps them awake. I offer the freedom and a safe space to explore either option.
When he leaves, he smiles down at me. It’s small, tired, but real. That’s enough. He’s gone through hell and back, as have most of my clients. So I’ll take a small smile if it means he’s fought off the darkness another day.
After he’s gone, I clean the brushes, listening to the soft clink of glass jars and the rhythmic scrape of dried paint from under my fingernails. The studio settles into that nice, familiar quiet after a full day.
The soft click of the divider doors makes me look up.
“Long day?” Dr. Cassandra Waters steps into my half of the studio, her blue cardigan draped over her arm, and her dark curls pulled into a low bun.
She always looks like she walked straight out of a wellness retreat brochure.
She’s in her fifties, but she’s aged so well that she looks so much younger.
It’s actually crazy how beautiful she is.
“You could say that,” I laugh, setting a jar on the drying rack. “Three clients in a row this morning who all decided today was the day to crack open their childhood trauma vaults.”
“Oof,” she winces sympathetically. “That’s a triple-shot kind of afternoon.”
“Already had it,” I sigh, lifting my mug.
Behind her, two of our associate therapists wander through the hallway—Jordan zipping his backpack, Mae waving goodnight as she slips into her coat. They both offer quick smiles before heading out the door.
Cass watches them go, then leans lightly against one of the green velvet couches. “You handled a full rotation today. I’m impressed. And very proud.”
Her voice is warm, motherly in a way that never condescends. It’s one of the reasons clients adore her. Well, and me.
“I’m managing,” I say, wiping my hands on a paint-splattered towel. “How was your side of the battlefield?”
“I had a teenager refuse to speak for forty minutes and then burst into tears the second her dad picked her up,” she says dryly. “So, you know...normal Tuesday.”
“Damn,” I blow out a breath. “Do you think the father is abusive?”
She shakes her head, her blue eyes softening. “No, he’s been very invested in her recovery process. Her mother passed away from an overdose last year.”
I frown. “Oh.”
She glances around my studio at the canvases, the half-finished piece on the easel, and the soft glow of the lamps turning the room golden. “I walked by earlier and could hear your client laughing,” she says. “You’re doing excellent work, Emma.”
Even after a year, the praise still makes me want to cry. “Thanks, Cass. Really.”
She straightens, grabbing her bag from a nearby chair. “I’m heading out. Lock up when you’re done?”
“Of course.”
Her smile is gentle but perceptive. It’s like she sees everything I’m holding and won’t make me say any of it out loud. “Have a restful night, okay? And please, for the love of my blood pressure, don’t stay here painting until midnight again. You need rest, sweetheart.”
“No promises,” I tease.
She points at me, mock stern. “Emma.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll try.”
She laughs softly and heads toward the door, calling back, “Nova, come say goodbye!”
Nova springs up, tail wagging, trotting after her for one last ear scratch before Cass disappears down the hall.
And then it’s quiet again.
Just me, the fading sunlight, the ocean breeze drifting in through the cracked window. And the steady hum of a life I built with my own two hands. My phone suddenly buzzes against the counter. A text from Heather. One that has my body freezing.
HEATHER
I know it’s been a rough week, and you probably don’t wanna hear this...but Jude is coming back to Seaside.
My mouth goes dry. Completely. Like my tongue is suddenly made of sand. For a full three seconds, all I can do is stare at the words, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs.
No.
No, no, no.
I hit call before I can think. Heather answers on the second ring, her voice rushed, like she was waiting for me. “Em?”
“What are you talking about?” My own voice is unexpectedly strained. “What do you mean he’s coming here?”
She exhales sharply. “I didn’t want to text it all. I just...I thought you should know. I saw it online ten minutes ago—Jude got into a really bad bar fight last night.”
My entire body goes cold. A bar fight. Of course. “Is he—” I swallow. “Is he okay?”
“He’s alive,” she says quickly. “But he broke a man’s nose on camera. Apparently, his management announced that he’s ‘taking a break for his health.’ And guess where he’s spending that break?”
I grip the edge of my desk until my fingers ache. “Seaside.”
“Yeah.”
I can’t breathe inside the studio anymore. I grab my keys and walk straight out the door. By the time I’m in my forest green Subaru, I’m shaking. Not intensely...just enough that I have to wrap both hands around the steering wheel to keep myself together.
I should go to him. I should talk to him. No.
Heather’s still on the line, her voice softer now. “I’m sorry, Em. I know this is the last thing you need.”
I stare out the windshield. The evening light is fading, the street washed in dusky gold, and everything feels unreal. Like the world has shifted a degree to the left. “He’s really coming back here?” My voice cracks on the last word.
“Yes,” she confirms quietly.
I swallow hard. The place we fell in love. The place he left me standing barefoot on my porch at nineteen with mascara streaking down my cheeks. I close my eyes, gripping the wheel tighter than before.
“Em…” Heather’s voice is full of that soft, worried tone. “I don’t know how long he’s staying. But you don’t have to see him. You don’t have to do anything.”
But the truth is heavy in my chest. Part of me wants to see him. Part of me never recovered from the day he left. And...part of me wants to see if I can help him. Would he even want to see me? Am I being fucking pathetic right now?
The ocean crashes faintly in the distance. It’s the only sound since I had to roll down my windows for air. “I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.
“That’s okay,” Heather murmurs. “You don’t have to decide right at this moment. I can come over with some ice cream?”
I nod even though she can’t see it. “Yeah, sure. That’d be nice.” But all I can think is...I’ve helped so many beautiful people through their traumas and faced some of the most debilitating darkness...but I’m not ready for this.