Chapter 3

I opened my eyes, fighting the pull of drowsiness. The final light before sundown peered through my window like the bleak brightness that struggled to break through to my soul. My room-normally a tomb of darkness-was illuminated in a romantic light. The shadows danced on the walls, generating a creative tickle I hadn't felt in years. What I wouldn't give to have the desire to paint, to once again see the world as a continuous canvas where the oils and acrylics brought my imagination to life. Even if I could manage the urge, I didn't have any brushes or anything else that resembled art supplies.

A hint of laughter escaped my lips as I snickered, and an image of my creating a masterpiece with my fingers came to mind. Inspiration sparked and ignited my soul. It might have been a tiny flame, but it could also be the start of an inferno.

Jumping out of bed, I ran across the floor, nearly falling as I went. Halfway through the living room, I stopped and turned on the ball of my foot. It took seconds to grab my laptop from my nightstand and continue to the kitchen.

Jesus.

I worked quickly-afraid the inspiration would fade if I didn't harness it-with my computer connected to Bluetooth, music filled the air. A playlist I hadn't heard in ages broke the silence, and I stopped mid-step, soaking in the sensation that used to drive my creativity. As memories flooded my mind, an air of sadness seeped in. I had to remind myself, this was just a whim; it wasn't serious art-it was juvenile and elementary.

But...

I was free to create without criticizing eyes.

No one else would see.

I didn't even know what this would be.

Desperate to find mediums, I opened the pantry, grabbing peanut butter, jelly, bread, peas, crackers, and canned beans. In the fridge, I found raspberries, blueberries, cream cheese. Anything with texture and color made its way to the counter. The cabinets remained open, and the kitchen was in total disarray. Using cereal bowls, I mixed my pallet of fruits and cream cheese. The more vibrant the color that emerged, the quicker my heart strummed. Adrenaline pulsed through me as the most vivacious tones appeared.

Convinced I had what I needed, I took note of the surface, deciding which to use. The remaining sunlight-the way it hit the sheetrock, the shadows that danced on the plaster-illuminated a wall. The ethereal glow called to me. It chose itself-the wall with the most direct light. I pushed the breakfast table out of the way and moved the chairs near the entrance to clear space to work. With my bowls and provisional pallet scattered across the countertop, I traipsed over to the makeshift canvas.

The music took over, and I trusted myself just enough to reach into a dish and cover my fingers with a blue that was rich in color and flavor, not that I would be licking the wall. The intensity of the berries burst from the smoothness of the cream cheese. With no inclination of where this was going or what I was creating, I lost myself.

The last inkling of natural light faded into a shroud of darkness beyond the windows. With no concept of time, no one looking for me, and answering to no one, the hours escaped without notice, until the sun rose, and the forms began to shape. The piece grew exponentially with each tick of the clock. I'd worked through the night and into the next day, stopping only to relieve myself and mix more color. Crushed crackers added texture and lumps of old bread developed depth. Somehow, even with the warmth of the room, the food clung to the surface.

Startled by the knock on my door, I drew my attention from the wall. My hands were covered in chunky peanut butter, and there wasn't a clean dishtowel in sight. Anxiety set in as the pounding continued.

Dammit.

I climbed out of the mess in my makeshift studio and raced to the front door. The escalating sounds of panic on the other side irritated the hell out of me. "For fuck's sake! I'm coming."

When I reached for the knob, I covered it in grimy food, shook my head, and yanked it open. Nate stood in a fury on the other side. The crimson hue of his cheeks and neck resembled the raspberries I'd pureed in the kitchen.

"For God's sake, Bastian. I've been beating on your door for five minutes. I'd started to think you'd finally pulled the fucking trigger." Nate stepped into the house but couldn't get by me. "What the hell are you doing, and why is your door locked?" He glanced at my hands long enough that I stopped to examine my current state.

"Try calling before you come, Nate." It didn't really bother me. "I wasn't expecting anyone." The fact was, Nate had been coming to my house every afternoon at five-thirty since the day Sylvie died, just to ensure I hadn't ended it all.

"I haven't called in years, and I'm not starting now. What the fuck are you doing? Are you cooking?" He pushed past me with annoyance.

Holding my hands in front of me like a surgeon who had just scrubbed in, I kicked the door closed behind him and turned as he made his way through my home. Frozen, I wondered how this would play out. The moment he stepped foot into the kitchen, he'd think I was certifiably insane and might try to have me committed. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Nothing, man. I'm not doing anything." Guilt was a stench even I could smell.

His eyes narrowed. "You're definitely up to something." He inspected me from head to toe again. "And by the looks of you, it's one of your weird fucking idiosyncrasies. You look like shit. How long have you been up this time?"

In an effort to divert his attention and nothing to do it with, I tried to escort him back the way he came. "Nate, I'm fine. Thanks for checking on me, but you can head out. Maybe we can catch up tomorrow."

He smirked. "Holy shit. You're trying to get rid of me." And then the questions started. "What are you hiding? And why do you have food all over your hands?" He wasn't fooled, nor leaving. Fuck.

"Can't you just let this one go? I'm begging you."

"Not a chance in hell. You wanna tell me what you're up to, or should I just keep moving until I find it?"

Nate and I had been best friends since conception-at least that was the story our mothers told. They were always together; therefore, we were always together. There was no part of my life that Nate was unaware of, but not in a sick, female-henhouse kind of way. The way brothers would be if, indeed, we shared DNA.

When Sylvie had gotten sick, he'd known before I told him, like one of those damn dogs that can smell death. When she had actually died, Nate was on my doorstep. No one had told him. Hell, I hadn't even called the ambulance at that point. The fucker was just oddly in tune with me. I used to be the same with him, like twins, but after Sylvie, I became so engrossed in my own twisted nightmare that I quit listening to the inner voice that told me what he needed. I'd succumbed to my personal hell and currently drowned in a lake of fire.

I loved Nate, but I hated his ass at times like this. I couldn't deter him, he wouldn't leave peacefully, and once he walked into the kitchen, the interrogation wouldn't stop until he was satisfied.

I sighed, admitting defeat. "Kitchen."

He pushed the chairs aside to get into my "studio." "Did a bomb go off in here?" Then the sound of his heavy footsteps on the hardwood floors stopped, even though they continued to echo in my head. The moment he saw the mess on the wall, I knew.

I waited with bated breath for the fallout.

"My God. Did you do this?"

I didn't respond.

"Is that food on the wall?" It was a rhetorical question. Obviously, it was food on the wall.

My head dropped in shame. It wasn't a work of art. For Christ's sake, it was an edible finger-painting. Unable to avoid him, I approached with caution and my head bowed. The condemnation I was certain would mar his brow deterred me from making eye contact. But the longer I stood there, staring at his unmoving feet, the quieter it became. I finally lifted my gaze to find Nate with his cell phone in hand, snapping pictures.

It was then that I got my first glimpse of the work as a whole, not submerged in its pieces. I expected a rudimentary mess to catch my eye; instead, I received the reward of colors that stole my breath as the light of the afternoon highlighted them.

"Bastian, what the hell happened between last night and today?" He talked more to himself than to me, and his unanswered questions filled the air. "You swore off art years ago. Have you seen this?" Wonder danced in his eyes.

This had always been my favorite part of being an artist-someone taking in a piece I'd slaved over and having that person see what my heart had attempted to put out.

He dropped his phone to his side and stared at me, waiting for an answer. "Seriously, what happened?"

I ran my hand through my dark hair that needed a cut weeks ago, leaving a creamy mess like gel in the waves. "I don't have any paint." That was my brilliant response. Fuck, I was poetic.

He appeared as confused as I felt dumb. "You don't have any paint?"

I couldn't tell if he mocked me or didn't understand. "No. No brushes or canvases..." I shrugged. "So, I improvised." This was a huge step for me. The wrong words from my best friend could send me chasing Alice down the rabbit hole of depression.

"You improvised..." The words hung in the air as though he hadn't understood their literal meaning. "Have you seen this, Bastian?"

"Look, Nate, I know it sucks, and it's stupid to paint in food. I just had a moment mixed with a need and-"

"This is brilliant, man." His eyes returned to the wall, and he moved the way he'd seen me do thousands of times to get a different perspective. "I've never seen you do anything other than nudes. This is...fuck. I don't even have a word for this. I'm not an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but this is amazing. Truly."

I recognized the sincerity in his eyes and his tone. He only held my stare for a second before returning to my work.

"I don't know how the hell you're going to capture this to sell it, but seriously, man, it's out of this world."

When I stopped focusing on Nate's reaction and redirected my attention, I had to concede that it was the most intricate piece I'd ever done. The colors were astounding, and somehow, it captured an emotion I didn't remember ever feeling. The abstract nature, the happenstance of it all, was a bit overwhelming. The painting still needed work. It demanded more of my time, but, so far, I was in awe.

And just like that, Nate clapped his hands and switched gears. "Wash your hands, and change your clothes. Hell, better yet, go take a damn shower. You reek of peanut butter."

When I didn't move, he raised his brows.

"I'll wait for you. Let's go get a pint and a slice, and you can tell me where you found your inspiration again." Nate stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room where he plopped his six-foot-four-inch frame onto my couch. He was a fucking mammoth. It was no wonder women wouldn't keep his ass around. My guess was they were afraid of what having his child might do to their poor body.

"I'm gonna pass."

He grunted his disapproval. "Nope. You're not. You never leave this place, and I want to know what got into you. On our way home, we'll stop at the supply warehouse to buy paints, brushes, and canvases, so you can put your hand to use, creating art again instead of jacking off. I'm not arguing or leaving, so just go do it. It'll save us both time."

I debated silently. The lesser of two evils was to go. Two hours tops and I could be back home. But if I left and Sera messaged me, I wouldn't get it until I returned. For the first time in my life, I regretted my decision not to carry or even own a cell phone. I made a mental note to purchase one if I heard from Sera again.