The Girl in the Painting

I told him it was because I didn’t feel like talking to him, but he called bullshit and let me know Luce and Nigel have also been trying to reach me.

And my mom too.

Ever since I left Indy’s apartment, since I walked away from her, since I removed myself from her presence so I wouldn’t cause her any more fucking pain, I’ve been a real pathetic asshole.

Instead of forcing my misery on other people, I’ve stayed holed up in my brownstone, alternating my time between my bed and my studio.

Although, even when I’m in my studio, all my fingers seem to want to paint is her.

But my sheets are still covered in her paint, and all my studio does is remind me of her. It’s a fucking disaster.

And now, because of Bram’s fucking insistence, I’m sitting in some nightclub called Until or Ulta, fuck, I can’t remember. All I know is that it’s for some rich guy’s birthday. Apparently, said rich guy owns the joint and wants to spend the whole night flaunting how great he is and how much money he has.

One of the cocktail waitresses sets a fresh glass of whiskey on the table beside my chair, and I don’t hesitate to lift it to my mouth.

Happy birthday to the owner of this club. Cheers to you, you pretentious douchebag. I hope you go bankrupt.

I laugh at my own joke.

“What are you laughing about?” someone purrs into my ear, and I look up to see a blonde with big, fake tits and plastic lips smiling down at me. Her hand is on my shoulder, and she’s rubbing at my skin.

“Nothing,” I respond.

“What?” she asks and flutters her eyelashes. “You don’t want to tell me?”

“Nope.”

She pouts. I look away.

Fucking Bram. I should’ve stayed home.

The only reason he got me out of the house was because he mentioned whiskey.

I figured, what the hell. I’d drink a few and then head home.

Little did I know he was bringing me to the land of annoying music, pretentious assholes, and aggressive-fucking-women who either don’t realize I’m not interested or they don’t care.

“What’s your name?” the woman asks.

“Chuck.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not your name.” She slaps my shoulder on a high-pitched giggle. “You’re Ansel Bray, right?”

“Nope.”

She giggles again. “You’re so funny.”

Funny? This chick has a weird fucking sense of humor.

She takes it upon herself to sit down right beside me on the black pleather couch. If she gets any closer, she’ll be in my fucking lap.

“What are you drinking?” she asks and puts her hand on my thigh.

“Whiskey.”

“Mmmm,” she says through a little moan. “I love whiskey.”

Liar. Only alcoholics or people trying to escape their fucking misery—people like me—like whiskey.

“Good for you.”

She giggles again and reaches across my body, brushing her hand over my chest, and takes my glass from the table. She lifts it to her lips in a dramatic display, takes a drink, and licks her lips.

Immediately, I wave down the cocktail waitress and ask her to bring me another glass.

“Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

“No.”

More giggles.

“It’s Serena, by the way.”

I don’t respond. And, hopefully, in about thirty seconds, I won’t even remember her name.

The cocktail waitress brings me a fresh drink, and I make damn sure it’s out of what’s her name’s reach. I prefer my alcohol devoid of lipstick, desperation, and collagen, thank you very much.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” she asks. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind.” She rubs her hand up and down my chest. “I love the broody, mysterious type.”

Broody artist.

I think about Indy, and I think about the very first time she said those words to me.

We were on the subway, playing music for each other, and fuck, she took my breath away. Her smile. The way her blue eyes lit up when she was amused. The way those eyes slow-danced with emotion when the music in her ears was affecting her.

What’s her name’s voice fills my ears, and I outright ignore her and just let myself fall headfirst into thoughts of Indy.

Fuck, I miss her.

I miss her smile and her laugh and the way she bites on her bottom lip when she’s nervous. I miss her kiss and her touch and the way it felt to make love to her.

I feel like she’s mine, like she belongs with me, but I also feel like she was never mine to begin with.

She can’t even fucking look at me anymore.

When she looks at me, when she looks into my eyes, all she sees is him.

Adam. My donor. His eyes are my eyes, and because of that, because Indy knows that, she will never be able to look at me without pain. Without heartache.

When I went blind, I thought painting gave me life. I thought it was my life.

But I was wrong.

Painting gave me purpose. Indy gave me life.