Page 46 of Beautiful Exile

“It’s a tangled web,” she rasped. “The grief of losing her. The anger that part of you feels like she didn’t fight hard enough for you and Ellie. The fury at your father for his cruelty, his killing.”

“A tangled web,” I echoed. “Just like your painting.”

Her mouth curved the barest amount, those berry pink lips just starting to part. “True.”

“I’m not good at sharing this sort of stuff.”

“Seems like you’re doing a pretty good job to me.”

I let out a breath, finally exhaling fully and releasing some of the oxygen that had been held hostage in the deepest recesses of my lungs. “Sometimes, you need to bleed to bloom,” I said, repeating her words.

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “I find it’s what you do with the pain that matters the most. What do you turn it into? Something that brings light, or something that brings the darkness?”

“You bring the light.”

A genuine smile spread across Arden’s face. “Not everyone would say that. Not when you look at my art.”

I shook my head. “Then they don’t see it. Don’t seeyou. Facing that darkness is exactly what brings the light.”

“That’s what I like to think. And you can’t have one without the other.”

No, you couldn’t.

“I know that tangle, Linc.” My nickname on Arden’s tongue was a sensuous stroke. “I know what it’s like to miss someone and despise them in the same breath. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive my father for what he cost us all. Not sure I’ll be able to forgive my mother for possibly being complicit. But that doesn’t stop me from loving them both.”

Each word was like a blow to the chest. Because I felt that same battle when it came to my mom. I forced myself to release Arden’s hand, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. Shifting, I pulled out my phone, tapped in my code, and opened the photo album to the very last image.

“She’s both. The darkness and the light,” I rasped, turning the phone around so Arden could see the screen. I’d memorized the photo. If I’d had any sort of artistic skill, I could’ve etched it on paper without even looking at the original image.

I was twelve in the photo, and Ellie was only one. I held one of her hands while my mom held the other as we walked over the grass in Central Park. Ellie beamed up at us with a gummy smile, and my mom was soalive. Her hair was the same mix of light blond and brown as Ellie’s, but her eyes were a gray that none of us shared.

“She was beautiful,” Arden whispered.

I didn’t reply, simply swiped my finger across the screen to the next photo. It was a formal portrait from five years later, just a month before she died. There was no life in it; not even in six-year-old Ellie perched stiffly next to my mother—a woman whose eyes had gone completely dead.

“So much pain.” Arden’s voice was barely audible. “And rage,” she said as her gaze moved to my father with his perfectly styled dark brown hair so much like mine. And those dark hazel eyes.

“I look like him, and I hate it,” I muttered.

Arden’s gaze flew to me. “The hell you do.” Her hand lifted, fingertips grazing the skin beneath my eyes. “There’s light here, life. There’s nothing in his. You couldn’t look more different.”

Something shifted inside me, a recalibration I had no control over. “Thank you,” I whispered.

Her hand dropped away. “Thank you for giving me that.”

We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I forced my gaze away. “Not sure you’ll be thanking me when your burger’s cold.”

She chuckled. “I’ve eaten much worse than a lukewarm cheeseburger.”

I popped the top off my vanilla shake and dipped a french fry into it. “At least this won’t be ruined.”

Arden looked on in horror as I popped the fry into my mouth. “You did not just do that. French fries dunked in amilkshake?”

I barked out a laugh. “You sound like I’m putting liver and onions over ice cream or something.”

“You might as well be,” Arden accused.

“Have you ever tried it?” I challenged.

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