Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

“Good!” He comes running over to me, wrapping his arms around me and I lift my head to Leonie.

“I’ll see you both next week. Same time?”

“Ye—Yeah,” I stammer, confused by Clay’s reaction. I was sure that he’d come out feeling worse than he did when he went in.

Maybe this is a good thing after all?

She graces us with one last smile before walking away and I look down at Clay. “So, how did it go?” I ask, taking his hand and walking him out of here.

“It was good, I feel happier.”

“That’s amazing, Clay!”

We both grin at each other as we walk through the doors and toward the car where Edward is sitting reading a newspaper.

“I can’t wait to come back next week!” He grins and I can’t help but feel like I finally did something right as a parent.

To say I was surprised to get a message from Tristan inviting me to an art show is an understatement. Even after our strange exchange when I dropped Izzie off, I still felt like he would hate me for causing Clay to have a meltdown, but I guess he doesn’t blame me. I need to take a leaf out of his book because I still feel awful for what I caused.

Nevertheless, my nerves have been shot ever since and I haven’t been able to concentrate on everyday things. I’m excited that it’s Oliver Hunt’s work that we’ll be going to see because he’s an incredible artist—no, incredible isn’t a big enough word for the art that he creates—he’s phenomenal

I’ve been wanting to see one of his shows for a while now, so much so that I accepted Tristan’s offer on the spot without thinking of the consequences. I made it clear that this wasn’t a date, so why am I now standing in front of my closet, freaking out about what to wear?

I leaf through all of my clothes, finally deciding on a plain black bandage dress that falls just above my knees and I curl my auburn hair loosely so it hangs over my shoulders. The makeup I’ve applied is minimal but it draws attention to my chartreuse eyes, making them the focal point.

I step back and admire myself in the mirror; I’m not used to seeing myself in plain clothes, it seems odd. I shrug at my reflection before grabbing a clutch purse and walking downstairs, ignoring the smirk on Mom’s face as I walk into the kitchen.

“Fancy,” she comments, appraising my outfit.

“It’s an art show. You have to dress up.”

“This doesn’t feel like you though.” I shrug, well aware that this isn’t what I would normally wear. “You should wear that cream one with the teal accessories you got a few weeks back.”

“I’m not changing, Mom.” I roll my eyes and pour myself a glass of wine.

“Just saying.” She smirks at me again and I sigh.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“No, come on. Say what you’re dying to say.”

“Only if you’ll go and get changed.”

“I’m not—”

“Fine.” She turns around and stirs a pot on the stove.

I wait for her to impart her latest wisdom on me, only she doesn’t so I ask, “Mom?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Don’t give me ‘mmhmm,’ what were you going to say?”

She turns back around and crosses her arms over her chest as her gaze rakes over my outfit again. “Are you going to change?”

I huff and turn, walking out of the kitchen. “Twenty-nine years old and I feel like a teenager all over again.”