Chapter 1 #2
“I…” he started, then sharply changed direction. “Because this is my home.”
And this was what it came down to. We couldn’t even be honest with each other about how we were doing, let alone the reason he moved home. What was I doing talking to him, really?
“I missed you,” he said, almost vulnerable.
The Landon I knew was vulnerable, but the man in front of me? He didn’t look like he’d touch vulnerability with a ten-foot pole.
At least that lie snapped me out of whatever funk I had sunk into.
“Don’t you dare,” I snapped, clutching the canvas tote under my arm closer. “You don’t get to leave me, then tell me you missed me. In fact, you don’t get to talk to me ever.” I took in a sharp breath. “I never want to see you again.”
I’d finally hurt him—or at least surprised him—with my words. He ran a hand across his forehead, like he couldn’t believe what he had just done.
I could.
He had been hurting me for years, so why stop now?
“I’m—”
“No.”
I knew what he was going to say. I’m sorry.
The last time he said, or rather wrote, those words to me, I was still a child.
At eighteen, I was convinced I was fully grown, but there was so much I hadn’t experienced yet.
I’m sorry, he wrote in the letter that served as our last correspondence.
The same one I kept in a box at the back of my closet.
Before Landon could say anything else, anything that could get me to stay, I turned and ran, not stopping until I made it to the Community Connections Center.
As it turned out, I could run a lot longer than three minutes when I had something to run from.
I entered the community center with the gusto of someone outrunning the law, not an ex-boyfriend.
During my commute (read: sprint) here, I allowed myself to be angry at Landon.
To feel upset about the situation. But now, strapping on my cherry red volunteer badge, it was time to let those emotions go.
Besides, I would never see Landon again.
It would be like it never happened.
I would make it feel like it never happened.
Instead, I forced my anger to gutter like a candle in a draft and pushed open the door to the art classroom.
I was ten minutes early, so I guzzled down one of the water bottles we kept on top of the fridge.
The main classroom was a large, open area where kids worked on projects and collaborated on group activities.
Long tables were scattered throughout the room, bulletin boards and chalkboards covering the walls.
Inside the craft closet, I filtered through the supplies for what we needed today. Watercolor paints, sketchbooks, and tissues, at least.
Funding was minimal at best, so we had to make supplies last.
“Hey, Kira,” a familiar voice called out from outside the closet.
I balanced all the supplies on top of my arms as I emerged, then dropped them onto the table. “Good morning, Mary.”
Mary Singh, a tall and blonde older woman with small eyes the color of amber, was the administrator of the entire community center and had a tendency to press her hand to her chest and ask Did Michelangelo paint this? every time a kid showed her their painting.
I didn’t see her often outside of the volunteer meetings she ran at the start of each month.
She wrung her hands out. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
On the bright side, I didn’t think anything would be worse than what happened this morning. “What’s wrong?”
“Jordan’s dropped out of the volunteer program.”
I picked up the sketchbooks and began distributing them in front of all the chairs. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Jordan was my volunteer partner. He was a fantastic sketcher—way better than me—and had been pursuing a career in photography. Maybe he landed a job that required weekend work. He was a nice guy, but it wasn’t tragic to see him go or anything.
We had volunteered together for about three months, but I had been volunteering here for one year. I wasn’t sure what overcame me the day I saw an ad on a local bulletin board, but I immediately applied for the opening. Thankfully, they trusted me enough to run an art classroom.
Mary sighed. “Kira, I don’t think you understand.”
The last sketchbook slipped out of my hands and fell to the floor. As I reached for it, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“You know the CCC has a policy of two volunteers per class. At a minimum.”
I winced. Yeah, Jordan and I had our hands full with fifteen kids equipped with sharp pencils and bright-colored paint, but we had always been fine.
“Funding has been really tight this year, and the board is suggesting we shut down some of the recreational activities.”
“What?” I bumped my head on the corner of the table and groaned. Ouch. “You can’t take art class away. The kids love it!”
“They do, and trust me, I know how important art is, but—”
“Then why would you take it away?”
Mary pursed her lips, then placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “My hands are tied, dear. There’s not much else I can do but cancel art class for the remainder of the year. Maybe in January, we can bring it back.”
Disappointment settled heavily in my bones as I sank into the nearest chair.
If the kids weren’t in art class, they’d be shuffled off to something else, like creative writing, maybe, or sports.
Nothing against those programs, but the kids in my class had something rare.
Talent. Spark. They just needed someone to see it. To believe in them.
I loved being that person for them. It was one of the few things that gave me purpose. And yeah, maybe volunteering here was a little selfish, too. It gave me a reason to make art every week, far away from critical eyes and the pressure to be perfect.
I buried my head in my hands. “What would we need to do to save the class?”
My words came out muffled, but Mary understood them.
“At the bare minimum, we’d need at least one more volunteer to host the class with you. And we don’t have a lot of funding for supplies. I’ll probably need to have a few fights with the board.”
“That’s okay.” I brightened. Maybe there was hope to salvage this after all. “I have extra art supplies. And I can lesson plan around sharing supplies and make them last a long time.”
“You shouldn’t have to do that.” Mary furrowed her brows. “We don’t pay you. It doesn’t feel right for you to bring in extra art supplies.”
I shrugged. “It’s fine. My day job covers it.” I managed a smile. “Just let me teach today like normal. I’ll figure out a replacement for Jordan by next Sunday.”
She hesitated. I knew she’d been getting pressure from the board for months—fewer classes, more kids crammed into one room. But Mary cared. She wanted to do right by these kids.
“Please, Mary,” I said, my voice low, urgent. “I’ll make it work. I promise.”
She studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she gave a slow nod. “We’ll talk more later,” she said quietly.
As she turned to leave, her hand brushed across the desk and paused. She picked up a worn sketchbook, thumbing the edge of the cover. My sketchbook.
“Why is it,” she murmured, “that you’re always the one helping everyone else chase their dreams, but you never try to chase your own?”
I did what I’d always done best: ignore the problem. Instead, I looked down, fiddling with a box of paints. “Class is starting soon.”
Mary exhaled, the sound soft and disappointed. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “So it is.”
She walked out without looking back. I gave a half-hearted wave anyway, then turned to set out the supplies, forcing myself to ignore the hollow ache settling in my chest.
This entire morning was just a blip in my daily routine. I’d find someone to cohost the class, and everything would fall back into place.
Because normal was safe. Predictable. And I wasn’t ready to lose that.