Page 7 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

And I don’t.

But sometimes, I wonder if a couple of years of happiness with Adrian might not’ve been worth spending the rest of my life broken.

***

I’m not sure I’ve ever suffered from a case of art block this severe.

I thought coaxing Adrian Ellis out of the locked box in my head and opening up to LuAnne would help me finish this collection, but I think it’s done the opposite.

I hate every idea I come up with.

I hate every brush stroke I put on the canvas.

And I especially hate painting in a cramped, six-hundred square apartment where there’s little natural light, an entitled feline trying to knock over my supplies, and not enough room for an actual easel.

Once I contemplate burning my portfolio to the ground, changing my name, and buying a plane ticket to Australia, I decide it’s time for a change of scenery.

Fortunately, I live in New York, the city where anything you want—literally, anything— is just one brisk walk and a Google search away.

Craving buckwheat spoon bread at 2 AM? There’s a cafe serving Slovenian cuisine eight blocks away. Trying to find an obscure plant only grown on the other side of the world? There’s probably a nursery in Brooklyn willing to import it.

And a spacious art studio that’ll let artists come and go as they please?

Well, there’s one doubling as a cafe in the Meatpacking District.

“ Okay! One small coffee with cream—that’ll be $7.82,” the barista chirps, and I try not to cringe as I swipe my card. “I’ll get that for you right now.”

Is New York getting more expensive, or am I just particularly short on cash?

My last job, a gallery assistant gig that paid under the table, dissolved last month. David, the owner, moved to Paris with two day’s notice and vague promises to brag about my work to all his European friends—so I’m counting nickels and dimes these days.

But if eight-dollar coffee is going to help me cure my artist’s block, then so be it, I think as I accept the steaming mug of coffee from the barista.

As I settle into one workstation, I take in the big, glass windows lining every wall, the easels ( real, H-frame easels too, not the portable one I have to use at home), and the soft jazz floating through the air.

I can definitely work with this.

***

“Are you a painter ?”

I nearly have a heart attack when, thirty minutes in, I look up and find a small, wide-eyed child staring right at me. He can’t be more than six or seven, and he’s got a bottle of chocolate milk clutched tightly in his pale, scrawny hands.

“Uh…” I glance around the studio, but there’s no obvious parent in sight.

“You look like a painter,” he says, and then points to my canvas. “But you’re not painting.”

Way to call me out, kid.

He’s not wrong though—not even caffeine, jazz, and natural light have been able to crack this artist’s block. “I’m trying to paint,” I tell him. “Do you have a parent with you?”

He ignores me. “What are you trying to paint?”

“Are you here with—”

“Simon!” The back of a blonde head pops into view. “You scared me. I thought you were waiting by the counter.” The man crouches down to the boy’s level, broad back muscles straining against his jacket. “Are you okay?”

“I wanted to meet a real-life painter,” is all Simon says, pointing to me. “But she’s not painting anything.”

The man pivots in my direction, and— hello there.

He can’t be much older than me, if at all, with wheat-blonde hair, a strong, square jaw, and blue eyes so bright they’re impossible to miss.

A wide, apologetic smile breaks over his face when he spots me. “Sorry to interrupt your work,” he says, and his voice is so deep it’s almost gravelly.

I’m not sure whether I like it.

“It’s fine,” I shrug. “Your son is right. I’m not really painting anything.”

Simon’s face scrunches up. “Tom isn’t my dad.”

The apologetic smile turns sheepish as the man—Tom, apparently—stands up. He’s got the build of a linebacker, but he’s more stocky than tall. “No, Simon is just one of my students at—are you sure we’re not interrupting you?”

Maybe it’s the procrastination talking, but I shake my head and set my paintbrush down. “Not at all.”

Simon tugs on Tom’s sleeve. “Can I go play on the jukebox?” He points to the machine tucked into the back of the studio.

“As long as you promise to stay near the jukebox,” Tom says, more concerned than stern. “No running off this time.”

Simon does just that, and Tom turns back to me, his blue eyes brightening.

They’re kind eyes too. Not guarded or judgy, but genuine and—

“You’re not from New York,” I blurt out.

He raises a bushy blond eyebrow. “What gave me away?”

“You don’t have the New Yorker look yet.”

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Neither,” I shake my head. “It’s just a look. New Yorkers, they’re…guarded. Untrusting till you can prove otherwise. You just don’t have that guarded look yet.”

“Huh.” Tom nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Well, I’m from Iowa. People there? Not guarded.” He glances around as if another Iowan within earshot might hear and get offended. “ But they also don’t drive as fast, so there’s that.”

“I believe that.”

Tom cocks his head to the side. “But you're not from here either.”

He can tell?

I frown. “You can tell?”

It’s been years since anyone has been able to discern that I’m a transplant.

“You referred to New Yorkers as a they, not a we,” he grins. “But you don’t strike me as a Midwestern girl.”

Maybe it’s because he’s from Iowa, but there’s zero embarrassment in my voice as I answer, “I grew up in Alabama.”

Tom whistles quietly. “You’re a long way from home.”

Well, Mobile isn’t home. Never really has been, I want to say, but instead: “I moved here for college and fell in love with the city. Plus, I’m an artist—” We both glance at my empty canvas. “—most of the time, at least. So, you’re a teacher?”

“Sort of,” he explains. “I taught second grade in Iowa, but a buddy of mine is running a nonprofit here in the city, and needed some extra hands. It’s a lot of private tutoring for kids that need the extra help, and honestly, the most rewarding work I’ve ever…”

There’s passion in Tom’s voice as he talks, and I watch his expression closely, but a few minutes in, I realize—

He’s not wearing a mask.

There’s no facade. His eyes are warm.

He means every word.

And that shouldn’t surprise me.

But it does—just a little.

“Anyway,” he finishes. “I should probably get back to Simon before he runs off again.”

“Yeah, I should probably get back to not painting too,” I say. “But it was nice meeting you.”

“Same here, and uh…” He shuffles on his feet. “Feel free to say no to this, but would you want to exchange numbers?” There’s more shuffling. “Get coffee sometime?”

I blink.

Oh.

I’m opening my mouth to politely reject him before I realize it, but then—

Why?

What’s wrong with me?

A cute, kind schoolteacher from Iowa is trying to ask me out, and I’m going to decline for no reason.

I hear a voice that sounds suspiciously like LuAnne echo through my head: what’s holding you back?

“Again…” Tom holds his hands up. “No pressure at all. If you’re seeing someone or—”

“No,” I interject, and his smile wanes. “No, I mean, I’m not seeing anyone. Yes to coffee.”

Not Adrian, that’s for sure.