Chapter 8
THE brIDGE COLORS
EMMA
The studio is nestled in the Arts District, located on the third floor of a converted warehouse where the scent of old brick and linseed oil hangs heavy in the evening air.
I spot Kai before I even reach the entrance.
He is leaning against the worn brick, scrolling through his phone.
He doesn't match the neighborhood. Not even close.
He sees me and the tension leaves his body so fast I almost miss it, replaced by a smile that makes the whole week worth surviving.
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” I stop in front of him, painfully aware that I came straight from the office; my blazer is slightly wrinkled, and my hair is windswept from the commute.
“I am so sorry. I meant to bring your jacket, but I forgot to grab it this morning in the rush, and I didn't have time to go back to my apartment.”
“Emma.” He smiles, and for a second, I forget the cold. He has a tiny dimple on the left and a faint shadow of stubble that highlights the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw. “You don’t need to worry about the jacket. You can bring it next time.”
“Ok, but really, I’m sorry.” I shift my bag on my shoulder, trying to find my footing. “How was your week? Did you survive the energy sector?”
“It was a demanding week,” he says, his eyes holding mine a beat too long. “I have a habit of going off the grid when a deadline is looming, but once the air cleared today, I knew I wanted to see you.”
I take note of the way he says it, as if work is a tide that pulls him under completely. “And a painting class is how you celebrate?” I tease, tilting my head. “Most people go for champagne and overpriced dinners.”
“Champagne is predictable,” he says. “And I suspected you might prefer this.”
“I do.” I grin, and some of my Monday-to-Friday armor loosens. “But fair warning, I haven't done this in years.”
He holds the door open. “After you. I looked into the instructor. Celeste Moreau. Apparently, she's a big deal.”
I stop in the doorway. “The Celeste Moreau? The one who does the massive textured abstracts?”
“You know her work?”
“I’ve studied it. Her use of layering is incredible.” I grab Kai’s arm without thinking, my fingers pressing into the solid muscle of his bicep. “And you booked us a class with her?”
“I thought you might like it,” he says simply.
I let him go and shake my head, a grin finally breaking through my nerves. “By letting us be terrible at painting right in front of her? That is a bold strategy, Kai.”
“The things I do for you.” He says it lightly, but the look in his eyes, amused and yet searching, makes my stomach do a slow, nervous roll.
Celeste Moreau is exactly as I imagined. She has silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe knot and paint etched under her fingernails. She looks at you like she's already decided what you're hiding.
“You’re my nineteen-hundred-hours slot.” She checks her tablet, her gaze flicking between us. “Kaiden and Emma?”
I glance at Kai. Kaiden. The full name sounds like a different man.
“That's us,” he says.
We claim two spots near the window. The late sun cuts across the blank canvases, turning the white fabric into a sheet of gold. As we set up, I’m fascinated by his hands, big, strong, and I definitely should stop staring at them.
“Have you painted before?” I ask, opening my kit.
“Technical drawings,” he says, picking up a brush and holding it with a strange, rigid awkwardness. “Everything I build has specifications. Measurements. This is... messy.”
“So this is torture for you.”
“Chaos is not my specialty.”
“Then why are we here?”
“I wanted to see you,” he says, setting the brush down and picking it up again as if he doesn't know what to do with his hands when they aren't working. “This seemed like something you would say yes to.”
I turn toward the paint tubes. Burnt orange. Cadmium yellow. I used to paint with these all the time. I'd forgotten. Kai stares at the paints the way most people stare at contracts. He reaches for Prussian blue, raw umber, and black.
“Those are bold choices,” I note. “You need a transition color or risk getting a muddy mess jumping from blue to black without a bridge.” I pick out a soft cerulean and a gray with blue undertones. “Use these. They will give you somewhere to go between the dark and the light.”
He takes them, his fingers brushing mine with a spark of static. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I know what I like.” I turn back to my canvas, sketching mentally what I would like to paint. “Whether I can execute it’s another story.”
Celeste begins the class by discussing instinct over technique, urging us to let the paint lead rather than forcing it into a shape.
Forty minutes into the session, I’ve stopped thinking.
The brush moves on its own, layering warm tones over cool ones.
It isn't pretty or planned, but it is the first honest thing I’ve created in years.
Kai’s canvas is different. It is precise and geometric; every stroke is measured with the accuracy of a machine. Celeste pauses behind him, telling him he’s strangling the life out of the paint.
He exhales through his teeth. “It doesn't do what I want.”
“The paint isn't your enemy. Stop treating it like one.”
After she moves on, he stares at his canvas as if it had personally offended him.
“I don’t know how to turn it off,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair and leaving a smear of blue paint at his temple. “The need for control.”
I add another sweep of orange and focus on the movement of my brush. “Maybe that’s why you’re here,” I whisper.
“And what are you learning?”
The question catches me off guard. I look at the warm colors bleeding into each other, messy and bright.
“That I missed this,” I say quietly. “More than I realized.”
When Celeste calls time, my canvas is a chaotic, warm mess, while Kai’s looks like a fight that is still ongoing. Celeste stops at my easel and studies it for a long, silent minute.
“You have instincts,” she says. “Real ones. If you ever want to develop them, I teach advanced classes on Saturdays. Don’t think. Just show up.”
My face burns with pride. “Thank you. I will think about it.”
“Don’t think,” Kai repeats after she moves on, watching me with an expression I can’t categorize. “It means you have potential. She didn't say that to me.”
I busy myself cleaning the brushes so I don’t have to meet his gaze, but my phone buzzes in my bag. Then it buzzes again. And again. I wipe my hands on a rag and dig it out. The screen shows four messages from an unknown number, and my mouth goes dry. I already know what I will find.
Unknown: I know you're ignoring me.
Unknown: We need to talk, Em.
Unknown: You can't just fucking disappear.
Unknown: I'll find you and you’ll be sorry.
The room tilts. My hands go ice-cold, and I feel a wave of nausea. He has a new number; he always finds a way. I try to shove the phone back into my bag, but my hands are shaking too hard, the zipper refusing to move.
“Emma?”
Kai's voice comes from very far away.
“Emma. What's wrong?”
Kai gently takes the phone from my hands and reads the messages. He goes still. The man looking at my phone is not the man who was painting beside me five minutes ago.
“Your ex?” He places a hand on my back, the warmth of his palm the only thing anchoring me to this room. I nod and cover my face with both hands. He must think I'm a drama queen.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Almost a year,” I force a laugh that comes out like a sob. “He gets a new number every time I block him. He’s just… used to things going his way.”
“How many times have you blocked him?”
“Four? Five?” I grab my bag, suddenly desperate to leave. “It's fine. I just need to block this number too and—“
“Emma. Look at me.” I lift my face, tears stinging my eyes. “Has he shown up in person before?”
“Twice… back in Ashford. He said he just wanted to talk, but I couldn't breathe until he left.”
Kai looks at the phone again. “Would you mind,” he says, his voice carefully controlled, “if I wrote down this number? I have friends who are very effective at discouraging unwanted contact.”
I stare at him. “You want to sic your friends on my ex?”
“I want to make sure he can't find you. Only if you are comfortable with it. I won’t do anything without your permission.”
I should say no. I barely know this man, but the thought of James showing up at GVM or my studio is more than I can bear. “Okay,” I whisper.
He types the number into his phone and sends a quick text. “Let me drive you home,” he says.
“You don't have to—“
“I know I don't have to.” He's already wearing his jacket. He holds out a hand to help me up. “I'd like to. If that's alright.”
I should argue. I always argue, but I’m shaking, and James is still in my head, and right now, the thought of being alone, watching my back on public transit makes my skin crawl.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
I take his hand. It's warm and envelops mine completely, but his grip is loose. Easy to pull away from if I wanted to.
He helps me to my feet and lets go the moment I'm steady.
His car is parked around the corner. I know nothing about cars, but I know money when I see it.
He opens my door. I slide in and try not to touch anything. The leather interior is supple and smells of luxury.
“Address?” he asks, starting the engine.
I give it to him and watch his face for the reaction.
If he has any thoughts, he keeps them for himself as he pulls into traffic.
“It's not a great area,” I say, because the silence is worse than the embarrassment. “I'm looking for something better, but I need a few more months of paychecks before I can afford it.”
“How long have you been there?”
“About a month. Since I moved.”
“From Ashford?”
“Yeah.” I watch the city slide by outside the window. “Fresh start. That was the idea, anyway.”
His jaw ticks. “The ex. How long were you together?”
“Three years.”
“And he's been doing this since you left?”
“On and off. We broke up a year ago, but he kept showing up. He was doing it in Ashford, too, and it was hard to avoid him in a small town. That's part of why I moved. I needed a fresh start.” I pick at a thread on my sleeve. “He must have heard I left town. I don't know why he keeps doing this.”
His hands shift on the steering wheel, gripping harder. We're heading into my neighborhood now, the buildings getting older, the streets narrower.
“Can I ask you something?” Kai says.
“You can ask.”
“Why did you break up?”
I could give him the easy answer. It wasn't working. We wanted different things. The kind of vague explanation that doesn't invite follow-up questions, but he just offered to have his mysterious friends deal with my stalker ex. That earns him some honesty.
“Because I was disappearing,” I say, the honesty of the evening making me raw.
“He had opinions about everything, what I wore, who I talked to.
He isolated me from my friends so skillfully that I didn't realize I was alone until I tried to reach out.
It was easier to just agree than to fight for my own identity until I didn't recognize myself in the mirror.”
Kai doesn't say anything. His hands are tight on the wheel.
“He wasn't always like that,” I add, though I'm not sure why I'm defending him. “In the beginning, he was charming. Attentive. Made me feel special.”
“They usually are.” There is a depth of knowledge in his voice that feels personal.
He pulls onto my street and brakes in front of my building. He is out of the car and opening my door before I can blink. I climb out, the cold air hitting my face, and he stands close, too close. I can smell the sandalwood on his skin.
“If you need anything,” he says, “call me. Anytime.”
The way he's looking at me, like I need saving, makes me want to hide. My spine locks. “I appreciate it. But you caught me in a bad moment. I'm fine. I don't need help.”
His breath changes. Something behind his eyes hardens into a thing I recognize from a different man, a different life. It has nothing to do with me. My body doesn't care. “Goodnight, Emma,” he says quietly, but I'm already retreating behind every wall I own.
There is no mention of next week. Just a polite, final goodbye. I watch him walk back to his car before slipping inside the building, sinking onto my bed once I’m behind my locked door.
I finally opened up to someone, and he couldn't get away fast enough. Maybe James was right. Maybe I'm too much.