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The mural was supposed to be my fresh start, Ericand me against a backdrop of our dreams. But life has a funny way of smudging lines and recoloring plans.
I suck in a breath, trying to steady the tremor in my hands as I remember the day I found out about Olivia. Joy crashed into fear so fast it left whiplash. Eric vanished with the news, leaving just emptiness and the echo of promises. But I couldn't let go, couldn't let this art become another casualty.
So, piece by stubborn piece, I changed the narrative. Where his silhouette once stood, now there was space for a little girl—space for Olivia. My fingers hover over the spot where our smiles should be, where the studio sign morphed into the welcoming arch of our small house. Our home.
"Finish what you started," I murmur to myself, but the tiles remain cold and indifferent. They don't know how much rides on tonight, how uncertain our future feels. All they know is the story I've yet to complete. The very picture I'm creating could all come crashing down in reality.
The boxes of glass shards sit like a jury beside me, their colors once vibrant, now just fragments of a dream that's slipping through my fingers. I run my hand over the cool surface of the tiles, letting each piece whisper its story of what could have been. My heart clenches at the thought of packing them up, of leaving behind this canvas of memories.
"Will we have to move, little pieces?" I ask, my voicebarely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might make it real. Tonight's vote looms over us, a threat to the home and life Olivia and I have built. The image on the mosaic stares back, half-finished, a reflection of our lives—always on the verge of change, never quite complete.
"Mom?"
I flinch, caught in the moment's melancholy.
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." Olivia stands there, her small frame leaning against the doorframe, concern etched in her young face.
"What is it, Liv?" I try to mask the waver in my voice, to be the rock she always leans on, even when I feel like I'm crumbling inside.
"Someone to see you," she says, tilting her head towards the living room.
"Who—" The question dies on my lips as I turn around, and there he is. Victor Stone fills the doorway with his presence, dark hair, blue eyes that seem to cut straight through to my soul—or my secrets. He's the last person I expect. Or want, really. But here he is, standing in my safe space, bringing the coldness of the world outside with him.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Victor
I send another text,my thumbs hesitating for just a second before I press 'send.'
Victor
Are you sure this is a good idea?
The flowers didn't work.
My phone buzzes almost immediately. Roman's always been quick on the draw.
Roman
Absolutely
Victor
Easy for you to say.
You're the guy who doesn't dorelationships.
Roman
Just because I don't tie myself down doesn't mean I can't read the playbook
It's classic Roman, always with an answer, even when he shouldn't have one.
"Uh-huh," I mutter under my breath, sending a final skeptical side-eye emoji before stuffing the phone into my pocket and looking up at the task ahead.
Avery's house stands quaintly before me, a small, weathered structure that looks like it's harboring secrets and stories within its peeling paint and creaky porch. There's character etched into every worn shingle and overgrown vine. It's completely at odds with the sleek lines and cold glass of the developments I'm used to. It's kind of charming, in an understated way.
I take a step back, taking in the house as a whole. The front flower boxes are a wild mess, probably beautiful when in bloom, but now it's all sleeping potential under the frosty touch of late fall. The windows are adorned with curtains that look handmade, and there's a whimsical wind chime dancing softly with the breeze, its gentle clinks filling the silence around me.