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247 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 2, 2013
Last year, I was broken. Dismantled bit by bit, day by day, until all that was left was a brittle shell. I wasn’t even aware it was happening until it was almost too late. I thought I was in love. I thought I could change—be prettier, more attentive—and that would make it better. It took a black eye and a fat lip to wake me up.
This semester, I’m reclaiming myself piece by piece.
As we approach the entrance to the co-op, this multi-story old building three blocks off quaint Main Street with its heated sidewalks and funky boutiques, I push away Alex’s mocking voice as it whispers You’re wasting your time … that looks like something a five-year-old would draw … I escaped from him at the end of January, but he’s still in my head sometimes.
The stairs creak and we look up to see a guy coming down the steps. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, maybe a few years older than I am, and he moves with the careless grace of an athlete.
“Holy hotness,” breathes Jude, mimicking my thoughts perfectly. It’s not that I’m on the prowl, but in this life, there are a few objective truths, and this guy’s attractiveness is one of them. His jeans hang from his lean hips and are stained with paint. A similarly decorated t-shirt clings to his frame, and there’s a smear of blue on his tanned, muscular forearm. He has chin-length, chocolate brown hair, but he’s pulled some of it away from his face in a partial ponytail high on the back of his head. And that gives us a perfect view of his wolf-gray eyes, which skate over us with mild interest as he descends the stairs and walks toward us.
“You guys here for my class?” he asks, nodding toward the classroom. Oh my God. He’s the teacher.
At the back of the studio is a huge primed canvas, five by five at least, with a thin layer of gray wash on it. The artist has begun to paint over it, thick smears of paint applied with a palette knife instead of a brush. It’s so intense that I’m drawn forward, needing to see it beneath the light. I flip on the overhead lamp and lean in, admiring the thin threads of yellow and red and purple in the blackish-blue squares of paint. And right through all that inky midnight is a deep red gash, a harsh V carved into the overwhelming darkness, revealing how artist has taken the time to build the layers, each one with a different dominant color. It’s both inviting and repellant, despair trying to devour a hope that won’t die. It looks edible and painful and I want to touch it but am afraid I’d sink in and get lost.
Her eerie eyes meet mine. “Can I help you?” she asks.
“Any recommendations?”
She stares at me. “What do you like?”
“Something funny, maybe? I have enough angst in my life that I don’t want to read about it, too.”
She snorts. “Tell me about it.”
I smile at her. “You too, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah. Have you tried Cora Carmack? Her stuff is hilarious.” She digs in her pile and pulls up a book, then holds it out to me.
I accept the book and look down at the cover. Losing It, it’s called. Sounds appropriate. “Is this what you read when you’re stressed out?”
She smiles, and it makes her pretty. She looks much younger when she smiles. “Definitely. I’ll be reading one of her books tonight for sure. I could use the distraction.” She holds up another book by the same author. Faking It. Also appropriate.