CHAPTERFIFTEEN
OLIVIA
Olivia stared at the blank canvas seemingly for hours. The man who she had encountered outside the studio threw her off a little, but not enough to where she forgot about Henry. The man was like a sweet taste in her mouth, but one that had gone sour in a single night.
She poured out her hues and shades of choice, staring down at them, hoping for some kind of magical inspiration. Her mind kept going back to Henry, even when she got a notification about the cancellation of her podcast that night. She gazed down at the notification on her phone, sighed, and tried to dip her brush into a radiant shade of red.
Red was how she was feeling at that moment. Sometimes known as the color of lust, the color of passion. That was how she felt the night before when Henry did something so intimate, so thoughtful, it made her want to open her body to him. It made her feel close to someone for the first time in a long time.
But at that moment, red was the color of her rage. Her annoyance toward herself that she could be fooled so early on by one single act of someone who just wanted to get her into her bed.
She splashed the shade onto the canvas, casting it in thick wads like blood sprayed from the slash of a throat. She wanted to express the shattering of her heart but didn’t want to be so dramatic as to admit that Henry had already become that important to her.
So Olivia moved in slow motions, remembering how they made love, the surges of foolish sensations moving through her body like light stabbings to her soul.
She barely noticed as other artists moved through the space, people she generally greeted with enthusiasm as they entered the studio and related to each other’s artistic aspirations. But they ignored her carefully like there was a clear black cloud around her screaming for her to be left alone.
Another notification popped up on her phone, this time through her email account. It was from one of her sponsors, so she placed the brush down and picked up the phone.
Olivia always scanned her emails for the word,unfortunately. It was how she was able to get to the point and accept reality. There wasn’t time in her mind for flowery words and sentiments. That was what happened with that email from a very vital sponsor, a gallery in New York, emailing her that they had to drop her ASAP.
She squeezed her phone, feeling the hot rage move through her again. She looked up at her canvas and scoffed. It was a stream of tangerine orange and that fervent red, mixed in some sad distorted mess. Aggressively, Olivia picked up the canvas and removed it from the easel. The motion shook her brushes a bit, sending a few rolling to the floor.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered to herself.
Olivia felt eyes on her, peering from every angle of the studio. But she didn’t give a shit. She pushed the used canvas aside with her foot and then picked up another blank one, unsure where to begin with it as well.
Eventually, she picked up some pastel-shaded hues, squished them onto her easel plate, and then began moving her brush in broad strokes. She had no idea how long she had been mixing the colors and swiping across the canvas until someone shook a paper bag in front of her face.
She blinked out of the trance, feeling instantly irritated. She smacked the bag out of the way and then snapped at the mystery distractor.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
She made eye contact with her sister, who was looking at her with stunned eyes. Olivia felt her snarl shrink, then blew a stray hair out of her eyes.
“Sorry, Evie,” she muttered. “Long fucking day.”
Evelyn held the bag and then looked at her watch.
“It’s only noon,” she replied.
Olivia shrugged, realizing that her hair was coming loose from her ponytail. She reached back, untied it, and then re-twisted it into a high bun. Her sister was staring at her the whole time, hugging the bag of food that was beginning to smell delicious.
“Thanks, Evie,” Olivia said, reaching for the bag.
But Evie pulled the bag away, giving her sister a little smirk.
“It’s not from me,” Evie said.
Olivia ran her hand through her hair, trying to catch scraggly bits of red that had still managed to come loose from her bun.
“What are you talking about?” she said, annoyed.
“It’s from him,” Evie said.
Her sister motioned with her elbow toward the entryway of the studio. Olivia’s eyes glided over to see Henry, standing outside with his back to the window.
Even from behind, the man was a sight to see. Her heart and body reacted to him as he controlled her with an electric current. But the feeling only served to bother her even more.