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Can we talk?
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Staring at the screen, I wait for those three little dots to appear, signaling he’s replying. They don’t. With a deep breath, I slide the phone onto the counter and head toward Olivia’s room.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Avery
20 yearsold
The numbers on the screen blur as I blink back tears. I refresh the page, hoping for a miracle, but my bank balance remains unchanged. My gaze drifts to the rent bill for the gallery, its due date circled in angry red ink. We're not going to make it. I look over at Eric, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sweeps his brush across the canvas. My stomach twists. What am I supposed to do?
I take a deep breath and approach him gently. "Eric, honey? Can we talk for a sec?"
He whirls around, eyes flashing. "Avery! How many times have I told you not to interrupt me when I'm working?"
"I know, I'm sorry, but?—"
"This better be important," he snaps, jabbing his paintbrush in my direction.
I swallow hard. "It is. The money's run out. I can't pay the rent for the gallery."
Eric scoffs, rolling his eyes. "What about that inheritance you got when your grandparents died? Use that."
The mention of my grandparents feels far too raw. I blink rapidly, fighting back tears. I haven't seen them since I left home to chase Eric's dreams. Now I never will again. Some days, the weight of that regret is almost too much to bear.
"Earth to Avery," Eric says, waving his hand in front of my face. "Hello? The money?"
I shake my head, trying to focus. How did Eric's dream of owning a gallery turn into my own personal nightmare?
I take a shaky breath. "That money's almost gone too. If we don't save some, we won't have anything for food or necessities."
Eric's jaw clenches. I hesitate, then ask softly, "Have you... have you sold any paintings recently?"
His eyes flash with anger. "Are you criticizing my art now?"
"No! No, of course not!" I hold up my hands, trying to calm him. "I believe in you, Eric. I always have. I just thought maybe we could market the gallery better, you know? Get your work out there more?"
Eric glares at me for a long moment, then turns back to his canvas. "I'm an artist, Avery, not a businessman. That's your job. I'm sure you'll figure it out."
My chest tightens. I blink hard, willing the tears not to fall. "Right. Of course."
Eric doesn't respond, already lost in his painting again. I grab my coat and slip out of the gallery, the cold air biting at my cheeks as I walk down the street.
A small coffee shop catches my eye. I pause, fingering the loose change in my pocket. It's frivolous, but... I need something to hold onto right now.
I push open the door, the warm air and rich scent of coffee enveloping me. "One small coffee, please," I tell the barista, sliding over 99 cents.
As I wrap my hands around the warm cup, I think, At least I have this. For now.
I settle into a small table near the window, cradling my coffee. The elderly woman at the next table catches my eye, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think it's my grandmother. Her silver hair, the way she holds her cup...
"Gran?" I whisper, my voice cracking.
She turns, and reality crashes back. It's not her. It could never be her again. The realization hits me like a physical blow, and I feel my stomach lurch.
I take a hasty sip of coffee, trying to ground myself, but the warmth turns to acid in my throat. "Oh god," I mutter, clapping a hand over my mouth.