Page 42 of There Are No Saints

I’ve got to pull it together. They’re here to see my collage. Everything is riding on this moment. If I start shouting like a madwoman, I’ll lose everything.

I turn toward the canvas, reeling like I’m drunk.

“Well,” I rasp, pausing to clear my throat. “As you can see, in this new series I’m experimenting with non-traditional artistic materials. Seeing if I can create a luxe effect by layering and manipulating alternative substances.”

“And where did you get that idea?” Martin Boss demands. He’s tall, skinny, and bald, dressed in a black turtleneck and Buddy Holly glasses. His voice is sharp and challenging, like he’s accusing me of something.

“I grew up in the Mission District,” I say, trying not to look at Cole Blackwell. “I’m inspired by murals and graffiti.”

I can feel Cole’s eyes burning into my back. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, beneath my long rope of hair. My heart is racing and I’m terrified, fucking terrified. I can’t believe he’s standing five feet behind me. Why is this happening? What does this mean?

It’s him, I know it’s him.

He’s wearing a dark suit, just like that night, with a cashmere polo in place of a dress shirt. That’s not common attire—I didn’t make that up, I couldn’t.

Another panel member, a woman in a red wrap dress and chunky bracelets, is asking a question, but I can’t hear it over the pounding in my ears.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I stammer.

I have to turn and look at her, which means turning toward Cole.

He’s definitely smirking now. Watching me sweat.

“I asked if that figure is a reference to Japanese Neo-Pop,” the woman says, kindly.

“Yes,” I say. “The juxtaposition of cute and sinister.”

I don’t know if that makes sense. Nothing is making sense right now.

“I like the peeled-off layers,” the last panel member says. I think his name was John, but I can’t remember now. “You should consider a piece focused on that technique.”

“Right.” I nod, pushing my hair back out of my face. “I will.”

My cheek feels wet where the back of my hand touched it. Fuck, did I just smear paint all over my face?

My skin is burning, I want to cry. Everyone is staring at me, most of all Cole. He’s draining the life out of me with those black eyes. Sucking me in.

“Well, if no one else has any questions, we’ll move on to the next studio,” Sonia says. “Thank you, Mara!”

“Thank you. All of you,” I reply awkwardly.

My eyes fix on Cole Blackwell once more, on that cold, malicious, and utterly stunning face.

“Good luck,” he says.

It sounds like a taunt.

They file out of the studio, Sonia in the rear this time.

I watch them leave.

I'm gasping for breath in a room that suddenly seems devoid of oxygen.

What just happened, what just happened, what just happened . . .

I should stay right here. I should keep my fucking mouth shut.

Instead, I storm out of the room, chasing after Blackwell.

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