10. Willow
10
WILLOW
P ainting has always been my escape, the only thing that gives me peace within the madness of my mind. The only thing that makes sense after Vincent brutally attacked Jasper for me. Did Jasper deserve it? Of course he did; he had planned to hurt me. He planned on showing me how mad he was that I was with the Chessmen. All because he believed I belonged to him and that we were meant to be together.
“Idiot,” I whisper, slashing a black line of paint across the image of a hand breaking into the chest of the faceless figure. I don’t know if I am saying that to me, or Jasper or Vincent.
My hand pauses mid-stroke, the brush trembling between my fingers as a bitter laugh escapes me, and the memories of last week claw at me like wild animals, refusing to let go.
Vincent’s face flashes in my mind—the way his jaw tightened, the storm brewing in his eyes before he snapped. His rage was terrifying, beautiful in its unrestrained intensity. A part of me wanted to scream at him to stop, to walk away, but another part, a darker part, reveled in his fury. He did it for me. For me .
In the past week Vincent hasn’t left me alone either.
The brush dips into crimson now, the color spreading like blood across the canvas, staining the image of the faceless figure. “Idiots,” I whisper again, harsher this time, my voice cracking under the weight of everything.
My eyes blur, and for a moment, I can’t tell if it’s the paint or tears distorting the picture. It doesn’t matter. None of it does. Because no amount of paint will change what happened. Or erase the guilt that gnaws at me, sharp and relentless.
The brush slips from my hand, clattering as it falls to the ground, the clatter breaking the silence in the room. Breathing heavily, I take a step back, staring at the mess I’ve made—on the canvas, in my life, everywhere.
The phone on my desk buzzes again.
Vincent.
My heart skips a beat as his name flashes across the screen, but the pit in my stomach sinks deeper with the incoming call. This is the thirty-first call today, and it’s only 4 p.m. Not to mention the 78 text messages that I barely have the energy to respond to.
His presence gnaws at me even when he’s not around, like a phantom that refuses to leave.
The way he looks at me—like he’s starving for something I don’t even understand—has a grip on me that I can’t shake.
It unsettles me, twists me in ways that leave me breathless, and that confusion threatens to drown me.
I glance at the phone but don’t reach for it. He’s been texting me nonstop since what happened with Jasper, and while part of me is drawn to the intensity of his messages, another part of me is terrified.
He won’t stop—won’t let me breathe—and I’m afraid of what he’ll demand from me next. But I don’t answer unless I absolutely have to. I can’t deal with that right now, I respond with the same thing over and over again: Give me some space.
All I want is time to process, be alone and figure myself out, because no boy should make me feel afraid, turned on and protected in the same breath.
I shouldn’t have been so weak with his hand around my throat and the words of protection on his tongue. I should have run, but I didn’t and I don’t know why.
I don’t understand the control the Chessmen have over me. And until I can figure it out, I need all of them, but especially Vincent.
The ringing from the call ends, and I let out a shaky breath just to suck it in again when the doorbell rings, because if that is Vincent, Cast, or even worse— fucking Damien, I am going to lose my shit.
I will go absolutely ballistic on them, because not only did I ask for space, Dad is home. This is his first day off in four months and I will not let the three stooges ruin my time with him.
With a deep, shaky breath, I push myself off the chair, my heart already pounding as I make my way toward the door. “I got it!” I call out to Dad as I jog down the stairs.
When I open the door, I’m greeted by Jasmine’s familiar grin.
“Umm, since when do you miss like nine days of school?” she says, her eyes narrowed as she inspects me for injuries.
I want to say, since the Chessmen have decided to make my life a sex dream and a living nightmare, but instead I flash her a wide smile. “Since I decided that high school was better than having my dreams crushed by RISD.”
Jasmine rolls her eyes. “You're going to get in Will. Stop acting like you’re not the most talented artist in all of Texas.”
I shift to let Jasmine in. “The problem is they are accepting students from the other 49 states.” I murmur.
“I keep telling her the New York art scene is overrated.” Dad sighs, wiping his hands on his jeans as he enters the foyer.
“Tommy!” Jasmine squeals, as she melts into his arms.
“Jazzy!” Dad coos, squeezing Jasmine so tight, her face flushes a soft pink.
While Tommy is my Dad, he might as well be Jasmine’s. Whenever her home life got bad, and it was always bad, she would come hide out over here until her mother forced her home, or she felt ok enough to go home. Dad even offered her a room of her own, but she says that would make it real and she likes for our house to be the fantasy she always wanted. A Dad, a sister and no alcoholic mother.
Still wrapped in their hug, Dad says, “Are you staying the night?”
“More like the week. If that’s okay?”
“Of course, Jazzy puff.” Dad whispers, kissing the top of her head. He pulls back eyes darting to me. “Maybe you can convince her to go back to school.”
“I have been going to school,” I pout.
“No you haven’t. 1) You and Jazzy have never been able to whisper, and 2) the principal just called and asked how your mono is doing.” Dad shoots an eyebrow up at me and I dryly giggle.
“I had all the symptoms.” I whisper.
“Sure…” he drawls, nodding his head in that way that says, he totally does not believe me. “I’m going to get started on dinner, settle Jazzy in and then come down and help.”
I nod, and Jasmine saults him. “Aye aye captain.”
As Dad heads to the kitchen, I glance at Jasmine and offer a small smile before gesturing toward my room.
“So, wanna watch a movie?” I ask, leading the way upstairs. Jasmine follows, the familiar sound of her footsteps behind me as I open my bedroom door.
“Oh no, you’re showing me your art portfolio, so I can hype you up.” Jasmine counters.
I can’t help but laugh nervously. “Uh, I don’t think you want to see it…”
“Don’t think.” She narrows her eyes at me, her lips curling into a playful smirk. “You have two options: show me of your own free will, or have me look for it—and you know I will make a mess and not clean it up.”
I sigh heavily, rubbing the bridge of my nose in defeat. “Fine. Second drawer in my desk.”
She squeals in excitement, rushing over to the desk with an energy only Jasmine could have. I follow her with my eyes, trying to swallow the fear and unease that’s gnawing at me. The portfolio isn’t just full of random sketches—it’s full of portraits. Portraits of us —me, her, my dad, and, most unsettling of all, the Chessmen.
Jasmine pulls open the drawer, her fingers brushing against the stack of papers before she lifts it out. She flips it open without hesitation, her eyes scanning each image with intense focus. The tension in my chest grows heavier as she pauses, staring at the portrait I painted of her and me at the park, both of us laughing. Her face softens, and she glances at me, her voice unusually quiet.
“Wow, Willow… this is amazing.” Her sighs fill the room, along with the flip of pages and the squeal when she finds herself. “Ugh! I love when you paint me. You always make me look so hot!”
I roll my eyes. “That’s because you are already hot Jazz.”
“But you make me look hotter, which should be impossible, but you Willy Bear are the master of impossible.” She winks, flipping to the next page and my stomach drops.
The faces of the Chessmen stare back at us from my sketches. There’s Cast, his wild confidence a mark in every line; Vincent, with his intoxicating smile, sharp eyes capturing that magnetic energy; and Damien, who I’ve captured in an abstract portrait, a mixture of shadows and intensity that seem to echo who he is. Even though they’ve caused me so much turmoil, I’ve found an odd solace in sketching them. It’s as if their essence, their energy, becomes a part of me.
“You really did them justice,” Jasmine remarks, her voice soft, admiration clear in her tone. “I mean, I’ve never seen anyone make them look... almost human.” She chuckles, eyeing the intense portrayal of Damien.
I laugh nervously. “Maybe too human.” The thought of Damien seeing this portrait makes me squirm. But the truth is, as much as I try to deny it, a part of me is drawn to them in ways I can't fully comprehend.
She stares intently at the photo. “Willow, you’re not just good. You’re amazing. You made the Chessmen look like humans. You’re gonna get in somewhere. Don’t worry about it.”
I nod, but the unease still lingers. The idea of RISD is both exciting and terrifying, but the pressure to be given a path that aligns with my heart feels like a weight. “Thanks Jazzy.”
Before she can respond, Dad calls from the kitchen, “Alright, girls. The rolls aren’t going to roll themselves!”
“He gets cornier by the day.” Jasmine sighs, and I giggle, looping my arm in hers.
We both jump up, laughing as we head toward the kitchen. The scent of something savory fills the house.
As I stand at the counter, completely covered in flour and rolling the rolls with Jasmine, a knock sounds on the door, unexpected and heavy. Dad pauses mid-movement, exchanging a confused look with me. “Expecting anyone?”
“No,” I answer, frowning. I haven’t invited anyone over, and my first thought is that it’s probably one of the Chessmen. I tense at the thought, especially after everything that’s been happening lately.
Dad heads to the door before I can do anything, and when he opens it, I hear two familiar voices. Vincent and Damien. Of course.
“Is that who I think it is?” Jasmine whisper-yells. I silently shush her and move into the hallway between the kitchen and the foyer.
“Good evening, Mr. Carter,” Vincent’s voice carries, always so smooth, as he steps inside with Damien.
“Evening,” Dad replies, pulling them in with a welcoming hand. “You boys need something?”
“We’ve got some homework for Willow,” Damien says, his eyes scanning the room briefly before landing on me hovering in the hallway. His gaze feels sharp, like he’s measuring me, trying to figure out what’s going on behind my eyes.
I stand frozen, feeling their presence like a weight behind me. I force a smile, trying to hide the wave of unease that washes over me. I haven’t seen them since our last tense encounter, and the energy in the room feels different now—charged, as if something unsaid lingers in the air.
“Well she’s right in the kitchen,” Dad nods. “I bet she will appreciate the favor.”
Jasmine, ever the observer, notices the shift and takes a step toward me, ready to intervene if need be. But before I can say anything, Vincent walks up to me, handing me a folded piece of paper with the assignments.
“Thought you might need these,” he says, his voice low, almost too casual, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells me he’s not as casual as he’s pretending to be.
“Thanks,” I reply, barely able to hold eye contact with him. The room feels small, too small for what’s simmering beneath the surface.
Dad snaps his finger looking at Damien who hasn’t taken his eyes off of me. “Are you on the hockey team?”
Damien nods, “Yup, center.”
“I knew it. That goal you made last week was incredible! You’re going pro.” Dad exclaims, excitement practically radiating off him. He loves any excuse to talk about sports, especially something as intense as hockey. “You boys stay for dinner, alright? The pot roast is almost done, and the girls are putting the rolls in.”
I glance at Damien, my eyes silently pleading for him to back out, to find some reason to excuse themselves. I can feel my pulse picking up, but when Damien’s lips quirk up into a smirk, I know I’m screwed. “We would love to.”
A tight smile spreads across my face, and silently I turn back into the kitchen moving back to the counter to finish the rolls.
“Tell me they are not staying.” Jasmine whispers.
“I wish they weren’t.” I mumble, and then heat engulfs my backside followed by the low rasp of Damien’s voice.
“That’s no way to treat your guests, trouble.” He whispers, leaving me cold, just as quickly as he warmed me up.
I look up to see Vincent leaning against the counter, eyes trained on me like a sniper. The room feels suddenly too small as Vincent moves closer, his presence overwhelming and addicting. He watches me with an array of guilt, regret, or something darker I can’t quite place. His proximity sends a wave of unease through me, but it’s not enough to stop me from finishing the rolls. My hands move mechanically as I knead the dough, trying to keep my composure.
“You’re really good at this,” Vincent says, his voice quieter than usual, but it carries weight. “The rolls. You... you’re good at everything you do.”
I don’t look up, not wanting him to see the frustration in my eyes. Instead, I focus on the task at hand, trying to put distance between us.
Jasmine looks up, and furrows her brows at him. “Willow?”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my eyes darting to meet hers as I nod my head to the side, signaling that she can leave.
Willow moves away, eyes narrowed on Vincent, while he steps closer, his presence almost suffocating now. “Willow,” he begins, but I cut him off, not wanting to hear it.
“I tell you I need space and you come to my house.” I snarl, eyes trained on the egg wash I slide across the top of each of the rolls.
“You weren’t answering my calls, or texts.”
“Because I needed space.” I snap.
“Willow I-”
“You beat him to a bloody pulp, Vincent.” My voice is harsh, sharper than I intended, but the anger rises in me anyway. “Jasper is in the hospital because of you. I don’t care how you try to justify it. That’s not okay.”
Vincent’s jaw clenches, his eyes darkening as he stares at me. “He tried to hurt you. You don’t understand, Willow. He was going to-” His tone grows colder, more intense, and my skin prickles with the weight of his words.
“I know what he was going to do, but that doesn’t mean you get to hurt him.” I grab the tray of rolls and step back from the counter, trying to create more space between us, my heart thumping in my chest. “You think that makes it okay? Violence is never the answer. You don’t have to do that. You’re better than that.”
“I’ll always protect you, no matter what. By any means necessary,” Vincent says, his voice low, like a vow.
I shake my head, refusing to let myself be swept up in his intensity. “No,” I snap, turning away from him as I swiftly open the oven and slide the rolls inside. “I don’t want that kind of protection. I don’t need you to hurt people for me. I don’t need you to fight my battles.”
Vincent takes a step forward, but I hold up my hand, silencing him. “Just… don’t. Please.”
The tension between us crackles in the air, thick and suffocating. He watches me for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of his gaze like an anchor in my chest. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment passes, and he steps back. I can tell he’s frustrated, but he doesn’t push.
I turn to see Dad and Jasmine are engrossed in their own conversation about hockey, their voices rising with enthusiasm as they debate teams and players. Jasmine is practically glowing, her passion for the sport clear as day. Damien seems content to listen, his eyes occasionally flicking over to me, but he stays out of it.
I feel like an outsider, standing there trying to keep my distance from Vincent, while Jasmine and Dad talk about hockey like they’re in their own world. It’s a strange comfort, hearing them so animated, so full of life, while I’m caught in a whirlwind of emotions I don’t know how to handle.
When the timer for the rolls bleats, Dad calls everyone to the table. The smell of pot roast and fresh bread fills the air. I take a seat between Jasmine and Dad, grateful for the buffer between me and Vincent, who sits across from me. Damien is next to him, his posture casual but his eyes anything but.
“So,” Dad begins, slicing into the roast, “you boys seem to know a lot about hockey. How do you know Willow?”
Vincent doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re close friends,” he says smoothly, his gaze flicking to me before returning to Dad. “We’ve been around Willow since freshman year.”
I stiffen, my grip tightening on the edge of my plate. Jasmine nudges me under the table, a small, silent reminder to stay calm, but I can’t— not when the memory of what Cast said flashes across my mind. Vincent has been fucking himself to you since freshman year. Intrigue rolls through me and for a second I want to ask if spank banks are included in friendships, but I don’t.
Damien, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet, leans forward, his intense gaze fixed on Dad. “Willow was the recipient of my mother’s heart,” he says, his voice steady but tinged with an edge of emotion.
The table falls silent. Dad sets his fork down, his expression shifting from surprise to sympathy. “I’m... I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says sincerely. “But thank you. Your mother gave my girl another chance at life. Willow, why didn’t you tell me?”
My eyes bore into the side of Damien’s head, but he doesn’t look at me, and I don’t look away as I speak. “Um…I don’t know.”
“Well, we should invite you over again for more than roast beef.” Dad insists.
Damien offers him a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about it, just knowing my mother’s death saved her, well, it makes it worth it.” His eyes lock with mine, and there’s something unspoken in them, something that makes my chest tighten. “And because she is the last piece of my mother living, I will always protect her. Always.”
Dad nods, a soft smile forming on his face. “That’s good to hear. Knowing she has people like you two looking out for her... it makes me feel better about leaving.”
I blink, my head snapping toward him. “Leaving? What do you mean?”
Dad sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to bring it up tonight, but I got an offer to go work on a project in Alaska. It’s a big opportunity, and I’ll only be gone for a few months. I just... I didn’t want to leave you alone, but we need the money.”
The room feels like it tilts for a moment, the weight of his words settling in my chest. Alaska. Months. Alone.
“When do you leave?” I whisper, my heart slowly breaking in my chest.
“Three days,” he sighs, avoiding my eyes.
“Dad…” I start, but Vincent interrupts, his voice firm.
“We’ll take care of her. You have my word.”
My breath catches in my throat, because for a moment I believed him— like really believed that he would take care of me, and that Damien would protect me with his life. Was this a trick? Because tricking me is fine, but Damien? No, never.
Jasmine chimes in with a determined nod. “Absolutely. Willow’s stuck with me. I’ll keep her in line.”
Dad chuckles softly, clearly reassured. “Well, that settles it then. Between you two and Jasmine, I think she’ll be just fine.”
I force a smile, though my stomach churns at the thought of him being gone. Quietly, I remove myself from the general conversation, hoping it will shift back to hockey, so I am not expected to speak anymore.
Jasmine is passionately debating the top teams with Dad, and Damien playfully teases her for picking them based on attractiveness while agreeing with my Dad on a few of the player’s skills. If we were dating, I would be impressed and thinking of all the brownie points he is racking up.
If Vincent and I were together, I would want him to fight for my father's attention more. But those thoughts are pointless because nothing is happening between us and my dad is about to leave.
I am spending one of my last three days with my Dad playing a charade with the Chessmen and it makes me sick.
My mind races as the weight of everything - my dad's departure, the Chessmen's constant presence, Damien's intense promise, Vincent's piercing stare - crushes down on me.I almost want to flee, but instead I freeze in place, a thin smile on my face, my chest tight, and my lungs burning with the need to breathe.