Chapter Twenty Nine
Walking into the studio is oddly comforting.
The smell of paint thinner and canvas, the way the sun gleams in through huge windows.
My skin prickles with warmth as I pass through the streams, all the way to my dark, lonely corner at the back of the room.
I blame the sun for my sudden frown, the loss of heat and optimism in my dingy corner no longer having the same appeal.
Today isn’t a day for disappearing, and as I clock the look Liz is giving me, I know she agrees.
Rounding the desk, I take my bags and dump them on the floor in the center of the room.
More specifically, in the seat Reid would usually occupy.
Students file inside, clutching coffees and sketchbooks while their quiet conversations layer over one another.
Any other group would stall and question my new seating choice, but not these students.
They don’t care for gossip, they care for their art.
That is, until Reid walks in. His vibe is different today, his entire aura on edge.
There’s an irritated ruffle to his white hair, a carelessness to his usual paint-stained wardrobe.
In fact, his t-shirt has a tear down one side and his jeans aren’t just ripped.
They’re struggling to cling onto his legs.
His gray gaze sweeps over the room, landing on me in his seat, and his marked sneakers scuff to a halt.
I refuse to cower. Call it payback for all the sleepless nights.
I wait for a confrontation, but he simply stands there, not a sarcastic remark in sight.
He must really be off his game. Without a word, Reid crosses the room with long, measured strides, grabbing a stool from the neighboring station.
The screech of him dragging it across the floor catches everyone’s attention as he sets it beside me.
I figure that’s the end of the show until a pair of strong arms close in, a chest pressed against my back and a set of artist’s hands gripping the stool I’m sitting on.
I grapple to skid my bag across the desk as I’m dragged a few inches over.
“This is my spot,” Reid grumbles as he drops down, pulling off the strap of his satchel.
“I didn’t see your name on it,” I raise a brow. Huffing lightly, Reid pulls his sketchbook free and drops it onto the desk with a light thud.
“It has the best light.” His finger waves through the stream of light I now notice slicing the desk in half, leaving my side in shadow.
It’s still much brighter than the back of the room though.
Opening my mouth to reply, our conversation is cut short as Liz approaches.
She drops a stack of newspapers in front of me.
“For this session, I’ve found every newspaper article and headline I can about you. I’d like you to read through them all,” she smiles broadly whilst sliding the bundle across the wood. My stomach sinks, the small dose of positivity within me dying a sudden death.
“That literally sounds like hell,” I groan, dragging a hand over my face as I stare down at the thick stack. Reid chuckles under his breath. The bastard. Liz continues on, pushing a thick black marker into my hand.
“As you go through each article, you can redact everything you wish wasn’t printed.
Every label they’ve given you, all of the recognition they’ve given him.
Cut it all out until only a version of the story you want printed is left behind.
” Her eyes soften just slightly. “It’s your story, Meg. Fix it.”
Dropping that small bomb in my brain, Liz retreats just before it implodes.
A sharp breath is sucked through my parted lips as I stare at the stack, no longer daunted.
This isn’t about reliving my trauma, it’s not about forcing me to face my shame.
Liz is giving me my story back. With just the smallest gesture, she’s given me the tools to take my life back.
At the front of the class, Liz addresses everyone else present, giving them a separate task for the day. I, however, uncap the marker and test its weight in my hand. Steadying myself, I read the first headline.
MISSING LACROSSE STAR FOUND ALIVE.
The letters blur for a second before I blink them back into focus.
Underneath the heading, there’s a photo of me.
Well, apparently it’s me. The girl in the image is huddled in a foil blanket, sitting in the back of an ambulance.
Her cheeks are hollow, her arms bloodied and bruised.
I didn’t realize how much weight I’d lost, and it’s not like I looked in a mirror until long after Thiago’s chocolate care packages had done their job.
It’s no wonder my muscle mass isn’t snapping back as quickly as I’d expected, but there’s no right way to recover. Only the way that is right for me.
Lifting the marker, I make my first strike.
Traumatized survivor. Gone. Then another.
Kidnapping victim. Gone. Each stroke becomes easier than the last, my pulse a steady beat in my ears.
Thick black ink spreads across the articles like oil soaking through fabric, fuzzing slightly at the edges.
I hover over the next term, a bitter laugh sounding just beneath my own breath.
Harrison’s prey. I scribble that one out harder than necessary, the ink tearing through the page and blurring into the pages underneath.
Around me, students shuffle and become absorbed in their own work.
I’m vaguely aware of Reid sketching, his head bobbing slightly from the music streaming into his ears.
Every once in a while, his bicep brushes mine, and every single time, it drags my attention away from the articles for the briefest moment.
I try to pay him no mind, enjoying that stream of perfect light as it drifts over onto my side of the desk.
I’ve never told anyone the specifics of what happened during my absence.
Not Thiago, not even the police beyond what they needed to know.
Harrison is who they blame, but he wasn’t working on his own.
He was simply a pawn carrying out a favor for my birth father, Frederick, until he decided being a pawn didn’t suit him.
He wanted to be the King, and he did whatever it took to bestow the title upon himself.
The moments preceding Frederick’s death will haunt me for a long time. Possibly forever.
The marker starts to move faster now, my hand beginning to ache as entire paragraphs disappear beneath heavy black strokes.
Names vanish. Speculation evaporates. And with it, shards of my fragmented soul start to piece back together.
They don’t heal, but for the first time in months, they seem to fit just right.
At some point a shadow stretches across the table, darkening the scattered papers beneath my hands.
I pause mid-stroke and glance up to find Reid leaning closer, reading over my shoulder.
His features are pensive, deep in thought.
I fight against the urge to squirm, to cover the papers with my arms like a five-year-old.
His white hair has fallen slightly into his eyes, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it as he studies the ink-soaked pages.
“You never asked me,” he mumbles under his breath. My brows twitch.
“Asked what?” I practically whisper, as if we are sharing some secret that is meant for us only. Reid swallows as he slides his open sketchbook towards me. I barely glance at the feminine figure spread across the page, my chest stirring with an uneasy feeling.
“About the paintings. I know you saw them.” His gray eyes cut a side glance at me, calculating my reaction. “You never asked me about them.” Sitting back an inch, needing to put the breathing room between us, I clear my throat.
“I figured they…they should remain private.” I half shrug. Reid’s expression doesn’t shift, but I sense that he doesn’t buy my bullshit lie. “And maybe I was scared of the answer, but now you’ve brought it up. Why did you paint me like…that?”
Reid doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his fingers brushing absent patterns into the edge of his sketchbook.
His gaze doesn’t quite meet mine this time, drifting somewhere across the room like he’s replaying something only he can see.
When he finally exhales, it’s restrained, as if each word has to be carefully selected before it leaves his mouth.
“Because that’s how you looked,” he replies quietly, a blunt honesty landing between us.
I glance down at the sketch again, taking it in properly this time.
The woman is curled in on herself, her knees drawn in, the knots along her spine grotesquely noticeable.
There are slashes across her back, shaded bruises dipping in and out of her prominent ribcage.
Dark hair falls forward like an ink spill across the page, mixing into the puddle of tears streaming from her eyes.
Around her, Reid has filled the page with words.
Some are tiny, some are huge, the press of the pencil seeming almost painful.
Broken. Powerful. Splintered. Stubborn. Alone. Beaten. Obstinate. Crushed. Brave. Absent. Fearless. Dejected. The list goes on, but the biggest word curved over her body is the one my eyes are repeatedly drawn back to. CAPTAIN. My throat tightens, my head beginning to spin as Reid licks his lips.
“I draw what I see, not what I want. It started in rehab. Whilst you were fighting so hard to keep anyone out, you had no idea how much you were actually revealing. I saw it all.” His gaze flicks to mine, catching the way my chin is starting to wobble.
I push down any sign of weakness, despite the fact Reid has just told me he’ll see it all anyway.
“I…I didn’t know you even noticed me.” My voice is barely more than whisper. Reid rolls his eyes and huffs, lifting his pencil to add a word to my personal dictionary. Oblivious. I don’t have time to scoff as he tears the page from his sketchbook and places it beneath my nose.
“You can edit what others say or think about you, but it won’t be enough.
This is your story, whether you like it or not.
This is where you need to start.” My head is swimming now, the room tilting slightly as I look back down at the sketch.
By the way he’s captured parts of me I didn’t even know were visible.
It’s invasive, exposing pieces of me that I didn’t give him permission to see.
Yet there’s something else buried beneath the discomfort.
Something unsettlingly close to being understood.
“I—” I start, my voice catching as the shrill ring of the bell sounds across campus.
The fragile, quiet bubble that had formed around us shatters.
Stools scrape back as students begin packing up, conversations sparking to life again as if my world isn’t imploding in the center of the studio.
Reid closes his sketchbook in one, smooth motion, pushing it into his satchel.
He stands, slinging the bag over his shoulder, his expression already resetting.
Turning to leave, my hand lashes out and I grab his wrist. Reid stills, his curious gaze looking back over his shoulder. I promptly release him.
“You were wrong about one thing,” I declare, picking up the black marker and striking out a single word on his page.
Pushing to stand, I lift the page and attempt to give it back to him.
“I was never alone.” Reid stands for a moment, his eyes steady on me as if hunting for the lie.
Then, when he doesn’t find one, he nods slowly.
“Keep it. It’s not my story, remember?” He leaves, heading out the door without looking back.
I just stand there with the page still clutched in my hand, the echo of his words settling in my chest. That strip of sunlight presses against my back, heat creeping in.
I bathe in it, my eyes dropping down to the sketch again.
To the version of me Reid saw when I didn’t know anyone was looking.
“There’s more to him than meets the eye, huh?
” Liz’s voice sounds from somewhere to my left.
I blink, noticing that it’s just the two of us left.
Liz is watching me from beside the supply table, her expression thoughtful.
Oh there’s a lot more to Reid that I can’t even begin to understand.
Not while he’s so busy psychoanalyzing me anyway.
I tilt my head, setting the drawing onto the newspapers. It seems counterproductive, to spend all morning manufacturing a certain version of myself, only to have Reid shit all over it and tell me who he thinks I am. But he’s not wrong. It’s just a version I wasn’t prepared to accept.
“Many of the students who take my class are coming here to hide. It’s my job to guide them.” Liz steps closer, her bangles clinking softly with each step.
“To what? Being healed?” I ask without looking up. She laughs quietly, reaching the other side of the table to look upon the drawing. I don’t try to shield it. Apparently, I’m an open book anyway.
“That’s not my place. I’m just an art tutor. If my students graduate with a better sense of self, an understanding of who they could be, that’s all I can ask for.”
Nodding, I reach out for the marker and click the cap in place. Then, I roll up the drawing and pack it away for later reflection. Skidding the newspapers back across the desk, my hand settles upon the stack.
“I have no idea how to pass your class,” I suddenly laugh, remembering where I am.
It’s been a heavy morning, but not the worst. Not by a long shot.
Maybe this is part of what I’m supposed to do, become a better me so that I can be of more use to Laura.
A hand touches the back of mine, giving a gentle squeeze.
“Don’t concern yourself with passing. If you’ve made progress, you’ll pass.
You’ll only fail if you don’t try.” A small smile touches Liz’s lips.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
Liz is a better therapist than any of those I’ve sat across from in all these months.
I reckon she’d give my own mother a run for her money.
Speaking of which, I have a group session to get to.
“Thanks,” I say to Liz, “for everything.”
“Same time tomorrow,” she bobs her brows and retreats to her desk. I step out of the stream of sunlight, inhaling deeply and a smile spreads across my face. It’s wide, aching my cheeks as I think to myself, I can’t wait to tell Thiago about this. In person.