The Girl in the Painting

“You know I hate answering the phones,” she whines.

Yep. Definitely rolling her eyes.

“Yes,” I agree. “Answering phones and doing pretty much anything on the computer.”

“That too.”

“And handling my calendar.”

She groans. “God, that’s terrible.”

“And scheduling meetings and drawing up contracts,” I add with a wry grin.

“You can shut up already.”

Amused laughter escapes my lungs.

“Remind me, Luce, why did you agree to this job?”

“Because I like money,” she singsongs without a single ounce of shame.

“Because of money?” My voice lightens around the edges with amusement. “And all this time, I thought it was because you loved my art.”

“Stop being so annoying.”

I laugh. Full out, this time. No doubt, Lucy loves money. She also loves makeup, plastic surgery, and Louis Vuitton.

But somehow, some way, the fake-titted twenty-four-year-old has become the closest thing I’ve got to a friend these days.

“Bring the most sought-after painting into my office.”

“What?” she complains. “Right now?”

Still, she’s a huge pain in the ass.

“You heard me,” I call over my shoulder as I use the cane to guide myself through the doorway and around to the back of my desk.

Her groan of annoyance fades as she goes to do my bidding, and the sound of her heels on the tile amplifies as she makes her way back to me.

The wave of sound almost makes me feel like I can see her in motion.

“Here it is,” she says and pops her gum between her teeth. “It’s—”

“Don’t tell me the name of it,” I cut her off. “Describe it to me.”

“What?”

“Tell me what’s on the canvas.”

“Are you screwing me with me right now? Why can’t I just tell you the name of it?”

“Luce,” I demand. “Describe it.”

“Fine.” She huffs out a sigh. “Well…” She pauses, and her heels shuffle back and forth across the marble floor. “It’s of an old woman. She’s wearing pants and a shirt. She really needs to brush her hair, and she’s, like, leaning up against a wall or something,” she describes—poorly, mind you—in between obnoxious pops of her gum.

“That’s it?” I question. “That’s your description of it?”

“Yeah,” she retorts without an ounce of uncertainty. “And I would guarantee you now know which painting it is, too.”

“That’s only because I painted it,” I say through a raspy laugh. “Your description, if you can even call it that, provided absolutely zero visual. Hell, it was complete shit, Luce.”

“I didn’t realize I was supposed to write a poem about it,” she sasses me. “Is that all you needed?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “You’re free to go secretly watch Netflix behind your desk.”

And as the sound of her laughter and heels drifts away, I assume she goes to do just that.

Meanwhile, I groan and run a hand through my hair as I visualize the painting Lucy just verbally assaulted.

Insomnia is the title. With a muted palette of black and white and the occasional soft touch of colors, the canvas appears dreamlike. The female figure feels as if she’s fading away before your very eyes.

Her plump frame is hunched over, and her back rests against the stark wall behind her. The messy locks of her gray hair fall in front of her face and create a veil of mystery and secrets.

You can’t see her eyes. Or her cheeks. Or her lips. But you can feel her looking toward you.

I think about the day I created it, and it’s so…vividly foreign. My chest constricts around my heart at the loss.

Fuck, this is painful.

My fingers itch to paint, but my soul has no desire to create.

I miss my old life.

I miss losing myself inside my studio.

I miss the rush and comfort and adrenaline and solace that painting provided.

God, I miss being able to see.

Before I know it, I’m barking instructions at my assistant to call Dr. Smith and make an appointment for as soon as he can fit me in.

If I’ve been offered the chance to take my life back, I have to do it.

Dr. Smith is ever accommodating, and a few hours later, I find myself inside his personal office, waiting on him yet again.

The smell of mahogany wood assaults my senses, and when I run my finger across the top of the large wood desk in front of my chair, I understand why.

Leather. A gargantuan desk meant to portray power. And most likely containing a plethora of medical-related books, Dr. Smith’s office is both a comfort and a cliché.

“Good afternoon,” he says when he walks into the room. The door shuts with a quiet click after his words.

“Afternoon, Doc.”

“I’m glad you decided to come back in for another visit.” His soft footsteps move past me, and his chair squeaks as he settles into it behind his desk. “Alone today?”

Whether it was for moral support or the simple reality that navigating New York City with no eyes and a simple red-tipped cane isn’t the easiest of tasks, prior to this visit, I’ve always attended these appointments with Bram at my side.