Page 46 of The Authenticity Clause
Chapter 32: The Unpacking
For two days, Leo lived in the dizzying, unstable space between two futures. One was a bright, terrifying question mark offered by Elena Vasile and The Gilded Finch Gallery. The other was a familiar, comforting, and cowardly escape route.
He had started packing.
The impulse had been a visceral, panicked reaction to the sudden influx of hope. The gallery showcase was an incredible opportunity, a lifeline he hadn't known he was searching for. But it was here, in Starling Grove. The same small city that held Julian Thorne. The thought of building a new, authentic life in the shadow of the man whose heart he had broken felt impossible, a daily exercise in self-flagellation.
So he had defaulted to his old programming. When life gets hard, when you fail, you run. You pack your bags, you change your scenery, and you pretend you’re a new person, leaving the ghost of your old failures behind.
He’d bought boxes. He’d started with the bookshelf, the act of packing away his beloved, dog-eared novels feeling symbolic. He was boxing up his past, preparing to ship it off to a new, unknown address. The first box was nearly full, a heavy, cardboard container filled with old stories and the promise ofa clean slate. It sat in the middle of his living room floor, a monument to his indecision.
Every time he looked at it, a war raged within him. The desire to flee, to escape the constant, aching reminder of Julian, was a powerful siren song. But the thought of the gallery, of Elena’s quiet, confident belief in him, was an anchor. For the first time in his life, he had been offered an opportunity not for a persona he had created, but for the most real part of himself. Running away from that felt like a different kind of failure. A deeper, more profound one.
He was staring at the box, locked in his usual state of paralysis, when his phone rang.Mom Calling. For weeks, he had ignored these calls, the guilt a hot, coiling snake in his gut. He had asked Maya to run interference, to feed his mother the gentle, corporate lie of a “restructuring.” But looking at the box, at the tangible evidence of his cowardice, he knew he couldn't hide anymore. Running from Julian was one thing; running from his mother, from everyone who loved him, was another.
He took a deep breath, the first one that felt like it had reached the bottom of his lungs in a month, and answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Leo! Oh, thank God. I was about to call the Starling Grove police department and file a missing person’s report. I had a whole story worked out about a rogue seagull abduction.”
The familiar, frantic warmth of his mother’s voice was a balm. A light, gentle humor, a life raft. “No seagull abductions, Mom. I’ve just been… busy.”
“Busy is good,” she said, but he could hear the note of uncertainty in her voice. She knew him too well. “Maya said theagency had some downsizing. Are you okay, honey? You know you can always come home.”
There it was. The escape hatch. The offer of a soft landing, a retreat back to the familiar comfort of his childhood bedroom. The box in the middle of the room seemed to pulse with temptation. He could say yes. He could be on a bus tomorrow.
But the words felt wrong. The lie, even a gentle one passed through Maya, felt heavy and false on his tongue. He looked at the half-finished canvas still on its easel, the raw, honest pain of it staring back at him. He couldn’t live like that anymore.
“Actually, Mom,” he began, his voice quiet but clear, the words tasting strange and new. “That’s not exactly what happened. I… I got fired.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. He could picture her, standing in her sunny yellow kitchen, her brow furrowed with concern. “Fired? Leo, what happened?”
“I messed up,” he said simply. No excuses. No deflections. “I wasn’t a good fit for the corporate world. It was my fault. I wasn't being honest with them, or with myself, about what I could do.” The confession was a stripped-down version of the truth, but it was the truth nonetheless. It was a staggering relief to say it out loud.
He braced himself for the disappointment, for the worried sighs, for the gentle but persistent questions about his future, his finances, his life choices.
Instead, his mother said, “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry that happened. That sounds like it was really painful.”
There was no judgment. Only empathy. The unexpectedness of it made his throat tighten.
“But,” she continued, and he could hear the smile returning to her voice, “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised.”
Leo blinked. “You’re not?”
“Leo, sweetheart, I’ve seen you try to fit into a dozen different boxes your entire life,” she said, her voice full of a deep, patient love. “Salesman, barista, office worker. You’re the most creative person I know, and you’ve been trying to force yourself to be a spreadsheet. It was never going to work. Your spirit is too… colorful for grayscale.”
A tear he didn’t know was coming slipped down his cheek. She saw him. After all this time, all his hiding and performing, she had always seen him.
“So what now?” she asked, her tone gentle. “Are you coming home?”
He looked at the box again. And then his gaze drifted to the easel. To the new, blank canvas he had set up yesterday. To the row of vibrant digital paint tubes lined up on his desk.
“No,” he said, and the word was firm, resolute. It was the sound of an anchor catching on solid ground. “Actually… something else happened. I’ve been painting again. A lot. And, uh, a local gallery saw my work.”
“A gallery?” The excitement in her voice was immediate and pure.
“Yeah,” he said, a slow, real smile spreading across his face. “The Gilded Finch. They offered me a spot in their emerging artists showcase. I have two months to create a collection.”
