Page 45 of Break Me Beautifully

"I ate it on the way."

"Oh. Well, now I feel weird eating alone."

"Don't," he laughs. "I have coffee." He drinks it to make a point. Taking his cue, I finish the doughnut in luxurious mouthfuls. Sunlight illuminates the room, catching on specks of dust and turning them into bright stars. Marshall sits in the chair with his ankle resting on his other knee, his eyes on my paintings. We don't talk, and it's nice. Really nice. There was a time where any silence between us brought anxiety into my blood. When did that change?

He gestures at the canvas I'm working on. "That's very beautiful. The green and blues make the reds really pop."

I smile helplessly. "Thanks. I hope the theme of my show is clear."

Gazing over the art, he puts his coffee to his lips, holding it there like he's deep in thought. I'm itching to know what's going on in his gorgeous head. Does he love my work, does he hate it? Does hegetit?

The canvases are arranged on various easels, some of them propped right on the floor against the walls. Each of them is a watercolor depicting beautiful girls growing from the ground, encountering fantastical beasts, then melting into their bodies as the ground turns into black ghosts and skeletal faces. It borders on fantasy-horror, darker than my normal work, but it feels right.

"Life and death," he whispers under his breath. "Right?"

I nod eagerly, thrilling with genuine pride. "Are they enough, do you think?"

"Enough?"

"To ..." I wave my hand, searching for the words, "...impress Bradford? No, to impress anyone who comes to the show. God, what if no one comes? What happens if I complete all of this and nothing gets sold or evenseen?"Panic swarms my heart. How had I not considered this until now?

"It'll sell," he says seriously.

"How do you know?"

"I just know." His eyes darken, then he stands, abandoning his coffee on the table. Walking towards my paintings, he folds his arms tight, studying them one by one. "Every artist feels the way you do. You wouldn't be an artist if you weren't scared of the idea your work will go unnoticed. Being forgotten, a ghost, that's as real a fear as there is."

A tiny prickle of an idea hits me. "Did you worry about it too? No one seeing your art?"

His whole spine goes straight before he twirls, staring at me, then looking away. "I don't think about that anymore."

"Why? Did you stop painting?"

His jaw moves like he's chewing more doughnut, but I know his mouth is empty. He speaks through clenched teeth. "It's been a very long time."

Slow as possible, I approach him the way one would approach a wild animal. I can see it in his twisted expression, the reality of the path he walks on, the way he abandoned his own art in order to succeed in the mafia. It cuts me to my core. "It's not too late to paint again," I say carefully.

Marshall's shoulders sink. "What would be the point? The only person who ever cared about my art is gone."

Placing my hand on his arm, I give him my kindest smile. "That's not true. I care."

His lip curls, the scar twisting with it. "What?"

"I want to see." Bending down, I grab a brush, offering it to him handle first. "I know you said you prefer oil paints, but maybe you can manage. This time, I mean."

"This time?" he asks. He looks at the brush like it's a poison needle I'm suggesting he stab himself with. Pushing his hand to his face, hiding his eyes, he lets out a sharp little laugh. "My god, you're cocky.This time.As if there'll be a second one."

"There will be."

"Who are you?" he snaps, his hand falling away. As hard as his tone is, there's a velvet-softness in his eyes. "No one has ever tried to push me around the way you do, Leona."

Holding the paintbrush higher, my smile grows so big the edges of my eyes crinkle. "Get used to it."

He snatches the brush, crushing it in his fist next to his head. I glimpse the tattoos on his wrist, the declaration of sacrifice to his father. I think for a horrible moment he's going to throw the brush across the room. Did I go too far? "One canvas," he says flatly. "Just one. The rest are for your show."

"Right, of course," I gush, my muscles loosening as the tension flows away. It's replaced by anticipation when Marshall sets up one of my smaller canvases on an easel. He grabs the tray of paint and my glass of water, then abandons his coat with a flourish onto the chair. Underneath he's wearing a plain white dress shirt, the cuffs deftly unfastened so he can roll them to his elbows.

He works fast, efficient, and I'm marveling even before he creates the first brush stroke. I once read that art is like music for your hands. I never understood that; I'm painfully clumsy when it comes to singing, and my parents gave up on hiring expensive teachers for me when I broke my second violin.

---