Page 61 of Abyss

It doesn’t matter why.

The bottom line is, it can’t happen again.

I’m leaving at the end of summer. I’m living with him and working for him until then. Crossing lines of professionalism will only lead to trouble, heartache, and a dead end. Not to mention, a potential rift with one of my only friends.

With those thoughts firmly set in my mind, I tread to my bathroom for a shower, determined to speak to Hudson when he gets home so we can get this whole lapse in judgment put to bed.

“CanI paint something else instead of the apple you’ve asked us to draw?” Jojo asks, staring at her blank canvas with her hands resting on her knees while she sits on her stool. Her short ashy brown hair is tucked behind her ears.

She seems wistful today, so I make a note to talk to her after class.

“Absolutely. That’s what the class is about. I just brought in the apple I painted when I was about your age as an inspiration piece, but you can do whatever you’d like. But I do want you to talk to me about what you’ve painted. I want to delve into your brushstrokes and the use of your colors—both give me an indication of how you’re feeling.”

The seven kids in my class start picking up their paintbrushes. Most have been regulars since I posted my ad for free art therapy months ago. Most come from less-than-privileged or affluent homes and need an outlet to express their feelings constructively, and this class offers them that opportunity once a week.

Fortunately, I was able to secure a small room at the high school near my mom’s house, which generously allows me to host this class each Sunday without charging me, so that’s been a huge boon. In fact, the school has even supported me by sending out communication to parents for this summer session.

As the kids begin painting, I look out the window, turning the silver ring on my thumb absentmindedly, wondering if Nathan read the email I sent him.

My thoughts then jump to the fact that I still need to reestablish ground rules with my boss, even if every cell in my body rejects the idea, wanting to see those rules break again and again.

Hudson never came home on Friday night. So, after staying up past eleven waiting for him, I decided to go to bed, hoping to talk to him on Saturday. But he didn’t show up Saturday, either.

Nor was he there this morning.

I know he’s alive, given his responses to work emails over the past two days, but it’s clear he’s avoiding me. And sincehe’s flying out for a four-night business trip this afternoon to New Hampshire, it appears our conversation will have to wait.

Maybe he’ll text me? Call me? Though, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have already? But I suppose I haven’t, either.

I keep telling myself it’s because I want to have the conversation with him face-to-face, but a nagging voice in my head says I’m a bold-faced liar and the only reason I haven’t texted him is because I’m too chicken.

What would I even start with?Thanks for playing tonsil tennis with me, but let’s maybe not do that again?

I gather, based on his silence and absence, he’s regretting what happened. And though I don’t regret the kiss, per se, I understand if he does.

He’s always so composed, almost dispassionate about anything besides work. So, for him to lose control in such a way . . . I can’t imagine he’s not reeling from it, wondering how he lost control.

Or maybe he’s not.

Maybe it didn’t even affect him enough to matter.

Given the fact that he dated someone from the marketing department a few years ago, from what Belinda told me, maybe this isn’t even a big deal to him. Maybe he hooks up with women in the office all the time.

Though, with the way he draws lines and keeps things professional with everyone, I can’t imagine that being the case, either.

Whatever his reasons are, I’ll make it easy for him. I’ll tell him we can file our little moment off as a blip of insanity and move forward. Nothing else needs to change.

And as for my guilty conscience about Madison, it’ll be my own cross to bear.

I observe Jojo as she adds a good dollop of black to thenavy on her palette before dabbing her brush into it and streaking the canvas. She’s so completely consumed in her thoughts as she paints over the same stroke, creating texture, that she hasn’t noticed me behind her. I’m just about to ask her if she’ll stay after class for a bit to talk when Elijah raises his hand.

I chuckle. “Elijah, you don’t have to raise your hand in this class. As long as you’re not speaking over someone else, you can feel free to talk.”

He points to my painting at the front of the class. “You always say a lot can be learned about the painter by the colors and textures they use.” At my nod, he continues, “So why is your apple damaged and bruised on one side? Why are all the colors so subdued, except for the dark blue bruise on the side?”

My eyes linger on my painting, taking me back to the day so much of my life changed, the almost four hours I cried myself hoarse, hoping someone would come get me out of that dark, dank closet, wondering if I’d die in there before I was rescued.

My logical brain told me I wouldn’t, that the maintenance staff would eventually come in and find me, but that’s the thing about fear . . . It keeps logic hostage, clouding rationality and intensifying despair.

---