lived on this island since the age of twenty. A time when she should’ve been sneaking into bars with friends. Dancing with strangers. Sharing sloppy, drunken kisses. Instead, she’d been here. Mostly alone. She might have no idea how breathtakingly gorgeous she was. Or that her hazel eyes had the ability to freeze a man to the spot. Couldn’t see that someone might want to paint her likeness, simply to try and capture that beauty.
She’d given up a lot to be here. A whole life in so many ways. And I couldn’t think of anything good that would send a young woman running that way. I cleared my throat. “You’ve got the look I need for this piece.”
Her hand slipped into her jeans’ pocket, seeming to find something there and squeeze. “I’m happy to help in other ways. I can organize your studio, clean up supplies, do any ordering you need. But I can’t sit for you.”
I saw something in her eyes—a mixture of fear and pain. And no piece of art on this planet was worth putting that there. “Okay.”
Her gaze shot to mine. “Okay?”
“Shay. I’m not going to fire you, all right? Not because you won’t pose for me or any other stupid reason. Well, I might fire you if you try to burn down my house. But other than that, you’re safe.”
Her lips twitched. “Even though I look like I’m barely old enough to drink?”
I rolled my eyes heavenward. “You’re not going to let me live that one down, are you?”
“I think I’ll keep it in my back pocket for moments like these.”
I shook my head, taking in the smile that stretched across her face. When I first stepped off the boat, Shay had looked far too young for the responsibilities of her job. But the more time I spent around her, the more I saw the wisdom carved into her. Something I was sure came from pain and hardship. Some people simply wore it like a badge of honor. And Shay was one of them. But that pain had also birthed beauty. Something so deep it was infused into her very being. That went beyond skin and flesh and burrowed soul-deep.
I couldn’t help but want every glimpse of it I could muster.
9
Shay
Evergreen13: Sit for the man! That’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I checked out his website. He’s a big deal.
My stomach churned as I studied my laptop screen. I knew without words that Brody was struggling to make his art. The countless discarded canvases piled next to the trash told me that much. Maybe that was always his process. Twelve trashed paintings for one completed one. But a little voice inside me said that this was abnormal for him. I wanted to help, to ease his way, but sitting for him was one thing I simply couldn’t do.
Phoenix26: You know why I can’t.
Evergreen13: You can’t spend the rest of your life cooped up on an island. Eventually, you’re going to have to live again.
I wanted that. Not to escape Harbor—I’d grown to love my life here—but to live freely. Not to live as someone who needed to be invisible, but someone who left their mark. A person who had real friends, people who truly knew her, and would feel her loss if she simply disappeared. A musician who didn’t hide her music where no one could hear, but let it touch the ears of the people around her.
When I’d hidden away in my little refuge, I’d slowly started erasing my life, bit by bit until there was nothing to see but a forgettable woman just passing through. Everything about me had seemed too risky. The thing I loved more than anything was the most dangerous of all.
My gaze drifted to the violin case in the corner. Growing up, I’d wanted nothing more than to play for audiences across the globe. To attend Juilliard or Berklee. To join an orchestra in Dresden or Los Angeles or at the Met. But those dreams had slowly morphed into only wanting to play without fear. To share my music with people who would listen. To not have my bow snapped in two because Michael thought I was hogging our parents’ attention.
By the time of the attack, I’d stepped back from performing. People wondered if the pressure had gotten to be too much for the young violin prodigy. I didn’t share the truth with anyone. It was simply too much to endure the tantrums at home. The flashes of anger.