Page 109 of Cut up
“That’s good, right?”
“Yes. No. I wanted to keep working until I could start here but it’s good that I have the time to get everything ready here.” She looks around. “Wow! It’s looking amazing!” She stops and looks at the wall for a beat.
“What is it?” I scratch my chin, I’m worried there’s something on the wall that I’ve missed.
“Nothing. I need to go home. I want to paint a canvas for this spot.” She points to the empty wall.
I laugh. “Okay. You do that baby. I’m about to head off to my next job.” I start to grab my things.
“Oh, by the way. Your dad called. He’s going to be working with me when he comes back.”
“What?! That’s great. It honestly didn’t feel real that he’s coming back, but now he’s spoken to you too. He’s really coming home.” We start to walk out of the salon. She stops. “Did I mention I love you?” She wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a kiss.
I’m really hating that we’re not alone right now.
I squeeze her ass.
“I love you too, baby. Now go home and paint that painting, I can’t wait to see it when it’s done.”
I walk her out to her car and we wave goodbye.
“See you later.” She blows me a kiss.
56
Lighter
After visiting the salon, I come home, set myself up outside and slip straight into painting mode. My feet are bare, my hair tied up and the music low. Time blurs as I layer soft strokes onto the canvas.
By the time I finish, the boys are home. I don’t want to show them yet. I will… when its hanging up in the salon.
The painting is a swirl of pastel purples, soft lilacs and muted mauves blending like morning fog over the ocean. Hints of ivory and blush ripple through it, subtle as seafoam. It’s abstract, but it feels like a deep breath—calm, quiet, intentional. Like healing on a canvas. The kind of piece that doesn’t shout, but hums gently in the background. It belongs in a space where people go to feel good.
Maybe that’s why I needed to paint it.
The next day, I wake up with a bit of nervous energy buzzing in my chest.
Lucas has already left for work, leaving the sheets cool on his side of the bed.
I lie there for a while with Gizmo by my side. I stare at the ceiling, practicing the breath work my yoga teacher insists I do more of.
My therapist appointment is today.
I hate talking about my feelings. Hate putting words to things I’d rather bury. But I know I need to. I need help.
I drag myself out of bed and move through my morning routine slower than usual, like I’m wading through water.
The air feels heavy, weighted with all the things I haven’t said out loud yet.
My thoughts drift to the hospital. I make a mental note to stop by and check on Sean later, though the idea makes my stomach twist.
He’s been in a coma for three days now. Three long, silent days. A Google search told me the longer it lasts, the harder it can be to recover.
I try not to think about the last time I saw him awake. The anger. The look on his face. I shake the memory off and head to the wardrobe.
By the time I’m dressed, my nerves are dancing just beneath my skin, humming like static.
I run my fingers over the fabric of my shirt, needing something to ground me.
