Page 157 of Paint the Town, Dove
“No,” he nodded. “Not like Paint the Town.”
“So why?” I asked, shifting closer. “I just… I don’t get why all of this is coming out now. I can’t help but feel like it’s because of –”
“Because of my mom?”
“Yeah, yes.” I took in a deep breath. “I don’t –”Fuck. “I don’t know how to feel because I don’t know what’s real or what kind of high you’re running off of. I don’t know if you’re acting out, or if you’re acting on impulse, or if you just simply don’t give a fuck anymore.”
His lips pressed together, eyes glued to the fire. “I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t give a fuck anymore, Scarlett.” He sniffed. “Paint the Town was the only song I could never finish. Something…somethingwasn’t clicking. Like there was this missing piece to the puzzle I couldn’t fucking figure out.”
“It took me years to realize that puzzle wasyou. You and me, together. I’ve –” he pinched the bridge of his nose – “I’ve always wanted you, you’ve got to be dumb shit stupid not to know. But you’ve got so many fucking walls, it’s like climbing Mount Everest with you most days.”
“And maybe, yeah, fuck. Maybe Clara coming back to the show drew out some demons but they’ve always been there. She left when I was a teenager, Scarlett. I’m almost thirty. I can’t keep going down this path, I’m going to fucking kill myself if I do.”
“You’re not going to kill yourself, don’t you ever fucking say that to me,” I pinched his wrist, not knowing how to respond to anything – fuckinganythingof what he just said because he was right, he was right.
I was Mount Everest.
And I didn’t know how to change.
My therapist told me that walls only come down when you feel safe enough to seekrefuge.
But Rydenwasmy refuge.
And I still.
Couldn’t.
Do it.
WhatthefuckVIOLETwhatthefuck.
“I think there’s something wrong with me,” I whispered, allowing some of that pain in, taking comfort in the admission. Violet.
Violet. Violet. Violet.
How could anyone ever love a Violet.
His hand sat atop mine, warm. “There’s something wrong with all of us.”
I looked at him, really looked at him. My eagle. The fire in his eyes reflecting mine, the sharp, jutted cheekbones of my warrior, my strong, Ryden Spectre, but underneath… a boy, who wanted love, who found a girl, that had nothing more to give thanrefuge.
“You know I…”Sayitsayitsayit. “Ryden, I –”
“I know,” he leaned in, forehead resting against mine, “I know you do, Dove.”
***
We slept in our separate beds, the moonlight and stars drifting down like glittered mist through our window.
I felt like a child, staring at him from across the room, admiringtheRyden Spectre like an obsessed fan. That’s all I could really do. In quiet moments like this, I said silent prayers to my god that he was my life, and he would always be in it.
Just like this.
Peaceful. Dreaming. Safe.
