Page 35 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

As he walked away, Jules dropped into one of the plastic chairs and rubbed the back of their neck.

There were only a few minutes to go before the workshop started, and Jules needed to figure out how they’d keep kids busy when not everyone was doing the same activity.

Their legs felt like lead and their stomach was a tightly coiled rope of nerves that wouldn’t unravel.

They didn’t notice Keaton until he was right beside them, his presence a quiet gravitational pull.

“Hey.” His voice was warm and low, a rough kind of comfort. “Didn’t think I’d catch you before things got started.”

Jules blinked up at him. He looked annoyingly good in a gray Henley and fitted jeans. He held out a to-go cup from Brew & Barrel. “Got you your usual when I saw how many cars were in the parking lot.”

Jules took the cup with a small smile. “Thanks.”

Keaton sat in the chair beside them, stretching his long legs out in front. “This is a great turnout.”

They nodded, sipping the coffee even though it was scalding. “Yeah. We’ll have to see what the parents have to say at the end of the session. Apparently, some are upset it’s more of an open house for free expression after a quick lesson.”

“There are always going to be people who have something to say about how others do things,” Keaton said, his voice softer now. “Just remember, there’s a reason you’re the one standing in front of the room. Run things the way you want to. Screw them.”

Jules didn’t answer right away. A kid dropped a tin of crayons across the floor and scrambled to pick them up. The noise was loud enough that Jules flinched before they could stop themselves.

Keaton noticed. Of course he did.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, his hand brushing lightly against their knee. It was a casual touch, one Jules wouldn’t have noticed two months ago. Now it felt like oxygen. Calming them.

“I’m fine,” Jules said automatically.

Keaton studied them, eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s okay to admit if something’s bugging you.”

Jules forced a laugh. “I mean, I have a class starting in five minutes, so kind of not an option.”

Keaton scowled, raising his hands in front of him in surrender. “Sorry, I was just trying to help.”

And that was a huge part of the problem.

Keaton was always trying to help. Jules wished they could make him see that sometimes they just wanted someone to listen, not fix things.

But as they’d pointed out, there wasn’t time to get into all that with class about to start.

“I know. And I’ll be fine. See you in a couple of hours? ”

Keaton took the hint. He brushed his fingers across Jules’s cheek. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. As Jules watched him leave, a hollow pit formed in their stomach. Keaton was going to slip away from them if they didn’t get their shit together.

But there was no time for thinking about possible impending doom now.

The kids were all that mattered for the next hour and a half.

They clapped their hands twice to get everyone’s attention.

It wasn’t easy, but they tamped down all the ick they were feeling about their personal life, forcing excitement into their voice. “Who’s ready to create today?”

“Me!” The entire room exploded into squeals of delight as everyone found their way to a workstation. Jules could do this. It wasn’t the first time they’d had to lead the group when they’d rather be anywhere else, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

By the time Jules dismissed the last of the kids and handed off the final work of smeared watercolors to a smiling parent, their entire body felt like it had been wrung out and hung up to dry.

Every muscle ached, their spine pulsing with dull protest each time they bent to stack a chair.

Their head throbbed in time with the cheap fluorescent lights, and even their eyes felt tired—so dry they burned every time they blinked.

It had been a good class. They knew that.

Objectively. The kind of chaos adults liked to describe as “joyfully messy,” full of glitter and glue and tiny hands splattering paint in the wrong directions.

Any other day, Jules might’ve laughed their way through it, their sleeves rolled up, encouraging creativity with glitter-streaked hands and dramatic gasps at every macaroni masterpiece.

But not today.

Today, every compliment had felt like static. Every smile had bounced right off. And now, standing in the middle of the room surrounded by half-dried paintings and the scent of washable tempera, Jules felt like a ghost in their own body.

They didn’t feel proud. Or satisfied. Or anything remotely close to okay.

They felt empty. Like they’d poured out every last drop of themselves for everyone else and had still managed to come up short.

Murray poked his head in to say good job, the usual end-of-class cheer in his voice.

Jules smiled the way they were supposed to.

Nodded. Gave a thumbs-up. They even managed a “Thanks, see you next month,” though it came out hoarse and thinner than they’d meant.

The door closed again with a soft click.

And then they folded.

Sank into the nearest chair like the strings holding them upright had finally snapped. Their limbs felt too long, too heavy. Their hands trembled in their lap, ringed with blue, green, and purple smudges, the kind that usually felt like proof of a good day.

Today, they just felt stained.

They rubbed at their eyes, not caring that smudged paint streaked across their cheekbone. The silence was sharper now, echoing in their ears like it had teeth. The kind of silence that made you listen too closely to your own thoughts.

They should’ve canceled the class. Should’ve told Keaton this week was too much. Should’ve admitted—aloud—that Keaton pushing them to do more with their art was having the opposite of his intended effect.

But instead, they’d done what they always did. Smiled. Said yes. Pushed through.

The door creaked.

One step. Then another. The sound of boots on linoleum, careful and deliberate.

Jules didn’t look up.

They didn’t have to.

“Hey,” Keaton said, voice softer than they’d heard it in days. “I came back to help clean up.”

Jules kept their eyes on the table in front of them, where a paper flower sagged on a pipe cleaner stem. Their fingers curled tighter around themselves.

They couldn’t speak yet. If they did, their voice would crack. They were holding too much under their skin, too close to the surface.

Keaton moved closer. They felt a shift in the air, the warmth of him. He crouched beside their chair and placed a to-go cup on the table. “Figured you’d need something for your throat,” he said, like that would fix it. Like a lavender chai latte could patch over this aching hollowness inside them.

Jules wrapped their hands around the cup. It was warm.

They didn’t drink it.

“From the sounds of it, you did great today,” Keaton said, one hand braced on the back of the chair. “I wish you could hear the parents talking about how they wish you did this more than once a month.”

“I’m sure,” Jules murmured. More people who wanted to dictate what Jules did with their art. There had been a time when they would have killed to have so many people in love with what they did, but now it was one more expectation of them. “As long as I teach the way they want me to.”

Keaton paused. “Hey, no one’s trying to change you.”

That was a lie. Everyone was trying to mold them into something they’d never be under the guise of knowing what was best for them.

Jules wanted nothing more than to go home and lock themselves in their room.

Calling their mom for advice wasn’t the same as being able to chat with her as they worked in the garden, but it would have to do for now.

Jules finally looked at Keaton, eyes burning with pent-up emotion.

“I wish that were true,” they whispered.

“There was a note on the board when I walked in with suggestions for how I could make the class better. These parents don’t understand that I’m not here to turn their kids into the next Monet or Banksy.

I just want them to have a creative outlet.

It took all the fun out of the workshop to the point where I felt like I was barely holding it together. ”

“You did hold it together,” he said, frowning like he wanted to fix something and couldn’t find the right tool. “That’s what matters.”

“Is it?” Jules asked, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “Because I’m starting to wonder if holding it together is just me pretending I’m okay until I forget how to be anything else.”

Keaton stood slowly, shifting like he couldn’t decide if he should give them space or stay close. “You’re not alone, Jules. You know that, right?”

They didn’t answer. Their eyes drifted to the mess of the room—paint-splattered tables, crooked collages, caps from dried-out markers rolling across the floor. All these tiny pieces of everyone else’s imaginations.

And nothing left of their own.

Keaton hovered for a moment longer, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slip of paper.

“There’s a gallery owner in Afton who wants to talk to you,” he said.

“We did some work for him, so he reached out to me, asking if I knew how to get in touch with you. I forwarded the email this morning. They saw the progress on your mural and love your vision. They want to meet.”

Jules froze. The cup in their hand tilted slightly, then slowly lowered to the table.

“Oh.” The word came out flat. Tight. “That’s…exciting.”

At what point would Jules be crushed under the weight of expectations?

Keaton still didn’t move. “I thought it might help. Knowing people see what you’re doing. There are so many people out there who believe in you and want you to succeed. You’re too good to keep your art in totes in the storage room.”

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because right now, Jules didn’t feel seen. Not really. Not for the parts of themselves that were quietly splintering beneath the surface.

They wanted to scream that the mural wasn’t done. That they weren’t done. That the version of them people liked—the bright, energetic, whimsical artist—wasn’t the whole truth. That they were starting to feel like they didn’t have anything left to give.

But instead, they just sat there and nodded. Because it was easier than opening up. Easier than falling apart.

Keaton took a step back. “I’ll start breaking down the tables,” he said. No pressure. Just a statement. Just something to do while he waited to see if they’d come back to themselves.

Jules didn’t try to stop him.

They just stared at the smudge of blue on their hand and wondered how long it would take to feel like themselves again—and whether anyone would notice if they didn’t.