Page 34 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

FOURTEEN

A half-finished canvas leaned against the kitchen wall, its bold strokes catching the early light.

There was something off about the way the painting was coming together, so Jules had brought it out here to mull over as they cooked breakfast. Jules’s fingers were still faintly stained with paint, smudges at their knuckles as they cracked an egg one-handed into the pan.

The hiss and pop of breakfast faded as the image took shape in their mind—a blur of color and feeling that refused to settle, much like the restlessness twisting in their chest.

They wiped their palms on a dish towel, eyes flicking between the stove and the canvas.

The unfinished painting called to them, louder than the sizzle of eggs or the clatter of the toaster.

Jules’s thoughts circled around the painting’s jagged lines and the stubborn ache of uncertainty that clung to them, their movements in the kitchen as automatic as brushstrokes on a background they weren’t sure how to finish.

Three commissions. Three requests for their art, sitting in their inbox with polite urgency, not counting the mural for Keaton and the one downtown.

It was the kind of validation they’d longed for, yet it felt like a weight pressing on their chest. Each mental revision of their to-do list only tightened the bands of anxiety constricting their breath.

This was supposed to be their dream coming true, but it was turning into a nightmare. Everything they’d feared was coming to life. Art was freeing when they could create whatever they felt inspired, but having a specific goal in mind that wasn’t their own stifled them.

Keaton’s footsteps echoed softly on the hardwood floors, pulling Jules from their spiral.

The scent of his body wash hung heavy in the air.

Jules inhaled deeply, allowing the woodsy spice to settle them.

Or it did until Keaton stepped up behind them.

He kissed the hollow below Jules’s ear before trailing kisses down their neck.

“Morning. My alarm didn’t wake you, did it? ”

Jules’s head lolled to the side, allowing Keaton better access. They loved how tactile he’d become over the past two months. God, it was hard to believe they’d already been here that long. “No, I was already awake.”

What they didn’t say was that they’d slept fitfully the night before, trying to escape the feeling that life was like a runaway train going down the side of a mountain. Everything suddenly felt like it was moving too fast, and there was no way they could get it under control.

Ordinarily, being wrapped in Keaton’s arms would settle something deep within, but today it only heightened their sense of unrest. Jules’s enthusiasm for the mural had been infectious when Keaton first mentioned it, but every day since, doubt had crept back in like an unwelcome guest.

“Something smells good,” Keaton remarked, crossing to the coffee maker. He brushed a kiss against their temple after pouring each of them a mug.

Jules managed a smile, though it felt as fragile as glass. Keaton complimented them on breakfast every day, but even that rankled this morning. “Just eggs and toast. Nothing fancy.”

“Hey.” Keaton’s voice softened as he turned to study their face. “You okay? You seem quiet this morning.”

The genuine concern in his tone made Jules’s throat tighten. They focused on sliding eggs onto plates, buying time before they had to meet that earnest gaze. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“About?” Keaton leaned against the counter, coffee momentarily forgotten as he watched Jules with a focus that made them feel seen yet exposed.

Jules hesitated, the words lodging in their throat. Finally, they whispered, “What if I can’t do it?”

“Do what?” Keaton’s brow furrowed, concern etching lines across his face.

“Any of it,” Jules admitted, their voice barely above a whisper.

Keaton set his mug down with a quiet clink, closing the distance between them. “Talk to me. What’s really going on?”

The toaster popped, startling Jules and breaking the fragile silence.

They busied themselves with buttering the toast, their movements jerky and uncertain.

“Everyone keeps pushing me toward this whole art thing, and I get it—you all believe in me. But what if making it my job ruins everything I love about creating? What if I’m not good enough? What if?—”

“Hey.” Keaton’s hands settled on their shoulders, grounding them with his steady presence. “Breathe.”

Jules sucked in a shaky breath, finally meeting Keaton’s steady gaze.

“Listen,” Keaton said softly, his voice a balm against the raw edges of Jules’s anxiety.

He slowly rubbed his hands up and down the length of Jules’s arms. “Nobody’s rushing you.

The mural offer stands whenever you’re ready.

Whether that’s next week or next year, it doesn’t matter to me.

I want you to be happy. And if you need me to lay off on talking about what you could do as a working artist, tell me that too.

I don’t want you feeling as if I’m pressuring you into anything. ”

His statement loosened something tight in Jules’s chest. It was as if Keaton had seen through to the heart of their fears and offered acceptance without conditions. They leaned forward, letting their forehead rest against his shoulder. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Not possible.” Keaton’s arms came around them, solid and reassuring as they held Jules close. “You could finger paint stick figures on my lobby wall, and I’d still be proud of you.”

A wet laugh bubbled up from Jules, breaking through the tension. “Don’t tempt me.”

Neither of them seemed to be in any hurry to release the other. It was a quiet moment of connection that spoke louder than words, a reminder that they weren’t alone in this. When they finally pulled back, the eggs had grown cold and the toast was soggy, but it didn’t matter as much anymore.

Jules took a step back, looking into Keaton’s eyes with a newfound clarity. “Thank you,” they said, voice steady and sincere. “For believing in me even when I can’t. I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. It means the world to me. It’s just overwhelming.”

Keaton smiled, a soft, affectionate curve of his lips that made Jules’s heart swell with gratitude. “Always,” he promised, brushing a stray hair from their face. “And when it gets to be too much, I want you to remember I’m right here. You don’t have to deal with any of this on your own.”

After breakfast, Keaton took care of the cleanup while Jules got ready for the day. It was Saturday, and they were teaching another art workshop at the community center. Jules hoped it would be what they needed to get out of this funk settling over them.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to stick around?” Keaton offered when he pulled up under the front awning.

Jules shook their head. “No, I should be fine. There weren’t many kids signed up the last time I checked.”

Famous last words.

Nothing seemed amiss when they first walked in, but as soon as the families started arriving, they realized they’d misjudged what today’s turnout was going to be.

It seemed like a never-ending swell of people kept coming until finally, Jules was left changing plans on the fly to make sure there would be enough supplies for everyone.

The room they used for arts and crafts buzzed with the chatter of excited children.

Kids darted between long folding tables, their laughter bouncing off the high ceilings.

Parents sipped coffee from paper cups, chatting in clusters near the back.

The scents of fingerpaint and clay hung in the air.

Somewhere, someone had cued up a playlist that alternated between acoustic covers and indie folk, the kind of music Jules usually loved.

Today, it made their teeth ache.

They stood at the front of the multipurpose room, arranging watercolor sets—carefully spaced, perfectly aligned, no palette missing a single color.

They weren’t sure why it was suddenly so important that everything be perfect.

Part of what they loved about teaching the kids was the way they embraced imperfection.

This side gig was supposed to be fun. It had started out that way, anyway—a once-a-month workshop for kids who wanted more time for art than they got in school.

Jules got to teach messy creativity in a judgment-free zone.

But now there was an official sign on the bulletin board and an email list with expectations, and one parent had asked if Jules could teach a “color theory unit” next month.

That was not what they’d signed up for, and it was just another way the fun was being sucked out of something they loved doing.

Jules didn’t do units. They barely did structure. Perhaps they should have seen the note with the changes as a sign of things to come today.

They reached for another stack of construction paper, only to realize they’d already handed it out.

Their fingers hovered for a second before dropping to their sides.

Everything felt slightly off-kilter—the way the light hit the glossy linoleum, the scratchy texture of the name tags they’d prepped that morning, the way their own heart kept galloping without warning.

“You okay, Jules?”

They turned at the sound of Murray’s voice. The community center director looked concerned, his brows drawn together under a mop of graying hair. Jules forced a smile that felt paper-thin.

“Yeah. Just…running through the mental checklist.” They debated whether to mention the note pinned to the board, but opted against it because this time was supposed to be about the kids. Bureaucratic bullshit could wait until later.

Murray nodded like he didn’t quite buy it, but he wasn’t going to push. “Class looks great. I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

“Thanks.”