It's Never Easy - Boudreaux Universe

I do this almost every day, when the silence becomes too much. I’m nothing like my father though, I watched him deteriorate, and I vowed I wouldn’t become like him.

I wallow in self-pity, which I know is terrible, but I can’t help it. It’s as if she’ll appear if I’m quiet. Even though we fought every day for the two months right up until she finally moved out and left me for someone else, I still miss the company in this large, empty house.

My wife was right. I’m a selfish bastard.

Now that I’m finally doing what my father always wanted me to—running the gallery—I feel as if perhaps my life isn’t meaningless. I should’ve done it while Shay was still here, but we were far too volatile.

I think about the girl I spoke to on the phone, which was a preliminary interview before actually meeting her. She is nothing more than a young, excitable student who is looking for her big break in this industry. The reason I asked to meet her before offering her the job is because I don’t need some pierced, tattooed goth chick walking around my gallery.

That makes me sound old. But the clientele that frequented Elliot Gallery and Estate in the past were rich, pompous assholes. My father knew how to entertain them. Me on the other hand, I hated it.

Dressing up to smile at strangers wasn’t my forte, hence the reason it took me so long to finally take the step into reopening the gallery. Tomorrow, I’ll decide if she’s worthy of working here and if she’s able to be the face of the company.

I’ve always enjoyed sitting back and running things from the office. And if she’s as enthusiastic as she sounded on the phone, I’m sure she’ll be the perfect hostess.

Heading into the studio, I pull open the cabinet and pour a double shot of bourbon into a tumbler before settling behind my desk. Eli wanted me to come over for dinner tonight, but I can’t face being around him and Kate. Not that I don’t care for them deeply, and not because I’m not happy for my friend, but seeing people gushing over each other reminds me of how alone I am.

I’ve spent months in hiding. Not showing my face at events, not attending art shows because I couldn’t smile when my life was falling apart. Taking a long gulp of the strong alcohol, I swallow it down, letting the burn take hold of me as it slithers down my throat. I focus on the canvas before me. Empty, void of color, just like my life.

I really should give up all hope of getting this thing done, but it was one of my favorite things to do—getting lost in my art.

After Shay walked out, I stopped painting. Even though I spend every night in here until the sun rises again, I’ve not picked up a paint brush. My fingers itch to do it, to create something breathtaking.

But how can I create beauty when my life is filled with darkness?

I swallow back the rest of the bourbon and get up to pour another shot. I shouldn’t drink so much, but since I have nobody to answer to, I enjoy the numbing sensation that trickles through me after a few doubles of amber liquid.

Numb.

That’s what I am.

It’s a phantom ache in my chest that hasn’t left, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to ease it away. Grabbing the bottle, I make my way back to the comfortable armchair, which I’ve positioned facing the empty canvas, and flop onto the cushions.

Setting the glass and bottle down beside me, I pick up the remote and turn on the stereo. The speakers surrounding the room fill the space with the melancholic sound of Lucas King, and I close my eyes, getting lost in the darkness.A loud banging on the front door rouses me from a dreamless sleep. I’m not sure who the fuck is at my house this early in the morning, but I pray to all that’s holy they leave. The incessant sound stops, and I sigh a breath of relief, but not long after, it starts back up.

Shoving myself from the sofa where I passed out last night, I call out to whoever it is to “Hold the fuck on.” With a quick glance in the mirror, I make sure I look halfway presentable before I pad over to the door. When I pull it open, there on my porch is a woman who looks far too bright and cheery for this ungodly hour.

“What?” I bite out, noticing her smile fall as she takes me in. The girl must be about five-four because I have to look down at her. She can’t be more than twenty. With her long, dark hair that’s got strange purple streaks and large, brown eyes the color of warm chocolate, she regards me with shock.