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And, oh.Oh.It all made a little more sense now—the easel, the art supplies. I swallowed. “Thank you,” I said quietly, and I meant it.

“You’re welcome.” She hesitated, stalling another step. “You know…I’m a firm believer that if you believe in yourself hard enough, you can make any of your dreams come true…

“But no one has ever made it to the top without accepting a little help along the way,” she finished, and walked out the door.

And I think that to a lot of people in my situation, her words would’ve sounded like total bullshit. But I knew, somewhere deep down, that what she’d said was true. It was just that the world had taught me I couldn’t rely on anyone but myself if I wanted to make it through this life in one piece.

Thirty-four Before

IT WAS THEfirst time I’d ever attempted to put paint on a canvas in a way that made sense to me, the day Elizabeth had left all those supplies in my bedroom for me to use.

But it wasn’t the first time I’d tried to channel the darkness I felt stirring inside of me into something else—into something outside of myself, attempting to turn that churning ball of pain and confusion into a thing of beauty instead of allowing it to fester and drag me under.

There was something about the brushstrokes of paint, though, that felt entirely new. That felt even more calming than the sound of pencil scratching against paper. I wouldn’t have believed that was possible until that day.

I got lost in it.

I must’ve sat in front of that easel for hours. Until the sun had fully set, and the sky had turned from bright blue and orange to magenta and indigo, and then dark. Dark, and sprinkled with stars.

When I finally pulled away from the painting, I found myself staring into my own eyes. A simple self-portrait of a girl. Only her hands were wrapped around her neck, fingertips digging into her own flesh. But looking into her eyes, you wouldn’t know it, that she was strangling herself. She looked oblivious—sad, but entirely oblivious—of her own self-destruction.

As I sat there, studying the features of my own face staring back at me, I could feel something slowly happening. A click; a shift. Something of magnitude rearranging itself inside of me, connecting thoughts of my past to emotions of my present in a way I hadn’t understood before.

I spent the next two weeks holed up in my room like that. Painting, or constantly looking forward to the next chunk of hours I’d be able to spend in there, learning the differences between brush and pencil, paper and canvas. Learning to process my feelings in a way that made sense to me.

It also happened to be far better than the alternative…allowing myself to linger on thoughts of Greyson. On the betrayal I’d seen in his eyes the day after Jaymes had made his stupid announcement, or the way we hadn’t said a single word to each other since our fight in that parking lot. And it was better than focusing on the way I’d been feeling more and more resigned with letting people believe Jaymes and I were a thing—with lettingJaymesbelieve him and I were a thing—with allowingmyselfto believe him and I were a thing.

Because I guess that’s what we were now. What we had been for a while:BoyfriendandGirlfriend.

But more than any of that, more than all of it, those hours of solitude helped me chisel away at the walls I’d constructed around my heart. Walls I hadn’t even realized I’d long been standing outside of.

Thirty-five Before

ANOTHER WEEK PASSEDby.

Sara was still distant. More than ever before, really. But I had no choice but to leave her be. There was that unspoken rule between us, that we wouldn’t talk about the shit that haunted us and dragged us down. And she’d quickly shut down all my offers to try and do something—anything—that would pull her out of her funk.

So I had no other option than to wait it out, wait for her to come around when she was ready.

It was a little lonely, though, if I was being honest, without her usual, over the top personality in my face as an easy and welcome distraction.

But I was busy, too. Between painting and homework and school and hanging out with Jaymes—more than I would’ve thought I’d want to, by the way. But it had been nice, his company. I’d learned that while he was annoyingly pushy verbally, he actually wasn’t all that pushy physically. And the fact that he’d been content with infrequent, small kisses and simply hanging out, watching movies, and not doing much of anything at all, kind of surprised me. Or a hell of a lot surprised me, if I was being completely honest.

That’s not to say he was a perfect gentleman, though. No—that idea was laughable. His dirty mouth, and flirtatious nature, and wandering eye far more than made up for it. He was still the same old Jaymes, just without a new notch or two in his belt every night. One that I proudly had not put in there either, or ever planned to.

So, I made it through that week with minimal human contact. With Sara, my dad and Elizabeth,Greyson. I was good with it, I guess.

But our poetry presentation was due in a couple of weeks, and to say I wasn’t looking forward to it would’ve been a massive understatement. Standing up there next to him, pretending the past few months had never happened, sounded like pure torture.

But I’d deal with that when I got there.

For now, I was going to turn in my“Life in Action”shots to Ms. Greenburg, my photography teacher, keep painting, and keep hanging out with…Jaymes.

…Maybe.

Thirty-six After

THE AESTHETIC OFToca Madera never ceases to fascinate me. But the way it provides a backdrop for Greyson is downright sinful.