in the making. Regardless, I remember those words every time I step foot in this shop that everyone said wouldn’t make it.
I’m determined. Just like Syd.
Which is why I left that coffee shop and that hot as fuck college kid who bought my coffee, came to my shop and picked up a paintbrush. It’s how I get lost in a world that doesn’t make any damn sense to me. Art isn’t just for the rich and the famous. It’s for anyone who wants to surround themselves with inspiration.
I’ve been an artist my entire life. Probably since my dad gave me my first calligraphy set when I was eight. From there, I designed wedding invitations all through high school and paid for myself to go to college that way. Well, part of it. I went to school to become a graphic designer and worked at a local advertising firm creating signs after I graduated college. I hated it and went back to designing invitations and those cute wooden signs you see at Hobby Lobby.
While I was pregnant with Tatum, I started an online shop and an Instagram account displaying everything I made. Soon it went crazy, got the attention of bigger accounts, and before I knew it, I was being called an influencer. Nobody should be influenced by me. It’s a fact. Regardless, I have my own shop in town now and love it.
I won’t bore you too much with what I do for a living, and as hard as I try to get lost in my work, I can’t ignore the fact that everything around me seems to be falling apart. Along with the weather. Every time I look outside, the sky is darker, the rain heavier than before. Hell, even my painting is dark. Deep shades of purple, pinks, and chalky gray in juxtaposition. It’s moody winter textures like a chunky knit blanket wrapped around darkness. I layer acrylic, watercolor, oil pastels, and channel that grumpy inside me.
You know what I blame all of this on? It’s Friday the thirteenth. It’s the worst day of the year. Damn you, Jason! That was who killed people on Friday the thirteenth with a chainsaw, right? Or maybe I’m messing up my horror movies because I’m the biggest baby ever and can’t watch anything scary after 10:00 a.m., or I’ll have nightmares.
A sudden gust of wind hits the shop as the front door opens with a creek. “Where have you been?”
Ah, yes, back to reality. I look up from my easel and to the prying cinnamon-colored eyes of the one standing before me. Collin. My fucking husband that I haven’t been able to get a hold of all morning. You want to know the real reason I told you all that shit about my life and how I got started at this shop? Because after I left the coffee shop, I went by Collin’s office. He wasn’t there. His secretary had no idea where he was and confirmed, in fact, our cell phones had been shut off.
So where was he? Judging by the haughty expression he wears, I’m not sure I’m getting the truth from him. I’ll tell you something about Collin. He’s a narcissist. He fits the mold. Excessive need for admiration. No regard for other’s feelings. Inability to handle criticism. Sense of entitlement. Yep, he has all that and lacks fucking empathy. But here’s the thing and why I fell for those adoring cinnamon eyes and crooked smile. I’m empathic. I’m what they call an emotional sponge, and it doesn’t take a psychology degree to realize what a cluster fuck of an unstable relationship we have.
“Seriously, Syd.” Collin plants his hands on my desk, his red tie hanging loosely from his neck. “Where have you been? I called you so many times.”
Drops of water cascade down his nose and roll off, plunging to the floor like my heart does every time I see this man and the look in his eyes lately. Can you tell when someone has fallen out of love with you? I think you can, and it looks something similar to this. “That’s an interesting question considering I’ve been here all morning,” I point out. “And you’ve been, I don’t know, not at work.”
He does that thing where he blinks quickly, and I know he’s either lying or trying to think of a lie. “I had a meeting at another bank in the city.” The lie rolls off his tongue easily. He straightens his posture and breathes