Chapter 14 #3
The wall stretched before her, a riot of color and movement and history. Players frozen mid-stride, pucks suspended in flight, the evolution of a franchise captured in paint and passion. It was good work. Maybe the best she'd ever done.
And in a few days, it would be complete. Unveiled. Celebrated with whatever ceremony Sam had planned.
Then there would be nothing keeping her here.
Is that what you want?
The question nagged at her like a splinter, too deep to remove, too irritating to ignore.
She climbed the scaffolding, brush in hand, and focused on the final sections. Detail work, mostly. The kind of meticulous finishing that required concentration, that left no room for spiraling thoughts or emotional breakdowns.
Hours passed.
Her arm ached from holding awkward positions. Her back protested the constant bending and stretching. But she kept working, kept painting, kept adding tiny pieces of herself to a wall that would remain long after she was gone.
A legacy, she thought. Evidence I was here.
The idea should have been comforting. It wasn't.
Around noon, she heard the arena door open. Footsteps—multiple sets this time, lighter than Tarmek's. She tensed, not ready to face anyone, not ready to pretend she was okay.
"Holy shit."
The voice was young and awed.
Edie looked down to find a cluster of kids gathered at the base of the scaffolding, eyes wide as they took in the mural.
The community art program. She'd forgotten they were scheduled for a tour today.
"That's so cool."
A little girl with braids pointed at the section featuring the championship celebration. "Is that real gold paint?"
"Metallic gold," Edie said, forcing her voice into something approaching normal. "Not real gold. Though that would be pretty awesome."
"Did you paint all of this yourself?"
"Most of it."
"How long did it take?"
"Months."
The kids peppered her with questions, and something in her chest loosened slightly. This was easier—talking about technique, explaining color theory, demonstrating brushstrokes. This was the part of her job she loved, the part that didn't require emotional vulnerability.
Sam appeared at the edge of the group, watching with a satisfied smile.
"They've been excited about this all week."
"They're great."
"You're great." Sam's expression softened. "The mural's incredible, Edie. Really. It's everything I hoped for and more."
"Thanks."
"You okay?"
The question caught her off guard. She must have looked worse than she thought.
"Fine. Just tired. Long nights."
Sam's gaze sharpened with that particular intelligence that made her so effective at her job.
"Right. Long nights."
She didn't push further, but Edie could feel the unasked questions hovering between them. About Tarmek. About the camper. About the tension that had been rippling through the organization ever since Edie had started pulling away.
None of their business, she told herself. My choices. My life. My mess.
The kids stayed for an hour, asking questions and taking pictures and begging to try painting a tiny section themselves. Edie let them add their initials to a hidden corner, a secret signature that would live in the wall forever.
"We're part of the mural now!" one boy crowed.
"Forever," Edie agreed, and the word tasted like ash on her tongue.
After they left, she kept working. Kept painting. Kept adding strokes to a wall that was rapidly running out of blank space.
The door opened again around six.
She knew who it was without looking. Could feel his presence like a change in atmospheric pressure.
"There's food in the break room."
Tarmek's voice, carefully neutral.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten all day."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know you."
The simple statement hit harder than it should have. He did know her. Knew her habits, her avoidance patterns, her tendency to skip meals when she was upset.
Knew her, in a way no one else ever had.
"I'll eat later."
"Edie."
"I said I'll eat later."
Silence. She could imagine his expression without seeing it—frustrated, worried, that familiar furrow between his brows that meant he was fighting the urge to fix something.
"Fine."
She heard him set something down—a plate, probably, or a container. Food she hadn't asked for, provided anyway.
Then footsteps retreating. The door closing.
Gone.
This is what you wanted, she reminded herself. Space. Distance. The freedom to make your own choices.
She climbed down from the scaffolding to find a container of soup and a fresh bread roll. Still warm. Probably from the café down the street, the one that made the tomato basil she'd mentioned loving once, weeks ago, in passing.
He'd remembered.
Of course he'd remembered.
Tarmek remembered everything.
Edie stared at the food, throat tight, and wondered how much longer she could keep running from someone who refused to stop caring.
The mural's almost done, she thought. A few more days. Then I can go.
But go where?
The question had no answer.
She ate the soup standing up, tasting nothing, and tried to convince herself that this was freedom.
It felt a lot like a prison.