Page 57 of The Art of Scandal

“This isn’t working,” Rachel announced as they reached the kitchen. His stomach plummeted. How often did he reach out to her now—five, six times a day? She probably thought he was obsessed.

Rachel poured a finger of bourbon into her glass. “You still haven’t finished anything, have you?”

Nathan’s heart settled back into his chest. “No, I haven’t.” He pictured the pile of false starts in his apartment. None of it felt honest. That was the only thing he knew he wanted. His name next to something true.

She slid the glass in his direction. “How do you usually get inspired?”

He swirled the bourbon around and watched the light filter through the liquid. “Read the Phoenix books again.”

“Right. But you were drawing before you read those. What inspired you then?”

Nathan hesitated. “Not much. I bought into that toxic, macho bullshit in boarding school. Paints were for girls. Real men didn’t know indigo from violet. I joined the wrestling team in high school, and I don’t even like sports. My coach hated me. And I was angry all the time. It came from that.”

One night, after losing a match, he’d picked up a chair and slammed it against the wall until it splintered. It felt good enough to scare him. “I quit the team, bought a sketch pad, and drew a bunch of raging, fucked-up shit that I burned as soon as it was finished.”

He took a drink and tried to clear it from his head. He hated going back there. He wasn’t that guy anymore, but he had been once, which meant that he could be again.

“I don’t want to have to be angry to make something real,” he said. These days, she was his only inspiration. Her laugh. Her smile. The dark glisten of her sweaty skin against his sheets. He could trace it all from memory onto his canvas.

Nathan drained his drink. She topped off her own glass, eyes moist with pity, like she’d discovered a limping puppy.

“Hey. It’s fine,” he said. “Ancient history.”

“Right. When’s the last time you saw an exhibit?” She snatched up the glass he just put down and returned it to the kitchen island.

Jesus, she was wound tight; the glass didn’t even have a chance to sweat. “Never.”

She stopped to stare at him. “Not even a museum?”

“No.” He paused, thinking back. “Maybe on a field trip once. But I’m pretty sure it was dinosaur fossils, that kind of thing.”

She set the glass on the island. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never been to MoMA? The Met? The Portrait Gallery? Nothing?”

“It’s not really my thing, Rachel.”

“How would you know? The walls of those places speak to you. It’s impossible not to be inspired.”

He disagreed. There wasn’t anything inspiring about random paint splotches dribbled on a canvas. But just talking about those places had her glowing. Visiting one would probably make her radiant. Two hundred miles from Oasis Springs, he’d be free to enjoy it, uninterrupted. “So, let’s go!” He threw out the suggestion, watering the faint hope of being alone with her until it sprouted and bloomed. “We can drive up to New York and you can show me around MoMA.”

The glow dimmed. “I can’t—” She paused, and chewed her lip for two agonizing seconds, before nodding to herself. “You know what? Yes. Let’s do it. How’s this weekend?”

“Good!” Nathan said, trying to rein in his enthusiasm, even though his greedy heart was still spinning. “It’s great. It’ll be fun.”

She nodded and touched an empty glass. “Would you like another drink?”

He glanced at a clock. “It’s five thirty. I should probably slow down.”

She blinked and shook her head. “You’re right. It is early, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” She poured the rest of her drink down the sink, flipped on the faucet, and chased everything with an aggressive wipe-down using a dishcloth that she threw in a small basket next to the refrigerator.

“What’s wrong?”

“What?” She blinked like he was shining a flashlight in her face. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay.”

She touched her ponytail. “Excuse me for relaxing in my own home.”

“I’m not talking about your hair. I like your hair. I like—”Every inch of you.“Did Matt—” The name was acid in his throat. “Did he do something to you?”

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