It’s like another limb. It’s seared into our marrow at this point.”
He wasn’t wrong. New York had become a part of me over the years. From the first time I escaped the suburbs of Connecticut and tore through the city with friends leaving our spray-painted tags in our wake, trying to become the next Banksy. Most had grown bored of the hobby the way most teenagers do. But I’d become obsessed. The burning desire to find a way to express everything inside me, the way I saw the world. It took over my life.
I’d left Connecticut for good the moment I could. Abandoning suburbia for the raw realism of the city. It had been everything I’d dreamed of for a long time. All-nighters with friends just as passionate about leaving their mark on the world through art as I was. Not art that was expected, either. Art that had no barriers and talked about real issues.
It was the highest high. Until it wasn’t.
I let the string in my hand fall to the ground. “It’s time for a change.”
“Running across the country won’t change what happened.”
My jaw worked as I struggled to form words. “I know it won’t. I just—I feel trapped. Claustrophobic.”
“Probably because you haven’t left your apartment in three months, other than to talk to the cops.” Carson swung his legs around so he sat up, facing me. “Listen. And really hear me. None of what happened was your fault. I get that it messed with your head. It couldn’t be any other way. But you’re not giving yourself a chance to get over it by locking yourself away, completely alone, thousands of miles away from your friends.”
“There’s a caretaker.”
“What?”
“I won’t be alone. There’s a caretaker on the island.” We hadn’t actually spoken, but my manager had communicated briefly with the woman. Said that everything was in order for my arrival. But, honestly, I wasn’t sure I could handle having even a single soul in my business.
“Your island came with a person?”
I chuckled. “No, she worked for the previous owners. But she’s staying on with the house if we can come to terms.”
“Jesus. That’s some sort of Downton Abbey shit.”
“That makes you want to come with me, doesn’t it?”
Carson pointed his beer at me. “Don’t start. You know I’ll deck you if you insult Downton.”
I held up both hands. “I would never.”
“That’s better.” He sobered again. “It’s not enough. One random person. I’m worried you’re going to become one of those hoarder hermits. We’ll have to hire a team for an intervention.”
“I solemnly swear not to become a hoarder.”
Carson eyed the door to my apartment. “Not if Lara has anything to say about it. I’m pretty sure she’s planning to airdrop your entire studio onto that new little island of yours.”
I groaned, leaning back against the chaise. “I never should’ve let her handle packing it up.”
“You know she’s like a dog with a bone. Gets even a hint of a grip, and she’s not giving it up for anything.”
It was the perfect description for a woman who looked the opposite of what she was. Petite, delicate, and impeccably dressed, you never expected the colorful curses that escaped her mouth. Or the way she took anyone to task if it got her clients what they and she wanted.
We’d been friends since I arrived in New York at the age of eighteen. She’d run with my crazy crowd but had discovered that she had more talent for wheeling and dealing in the art world than putting paint to surface. Now, almost twenty years later, she handled practically everything for me.
“She’s hoping I’ll keep painting.”
“No shit, Sherlock. You’re the one who keeps her Chelsea penthouse full of Louboutins.”
I took another pull of my beer. “She’ll find another prize pony. It’ll be you if you’re not careful.”
Carson gave an exaggerated shiver. “Too worried she’ll stab me in my sleep.”
“Or maybe you guys will hate-fuck each other and finally stop making my life miserable whenever you’re in the same room together.”
Carson leaned back onto the lounge. “That idea has merit.”
I snorted. “You would solve every problem you could by sleeping with it, just as long as it was female.”
“I have wide and varied tastes in both women and art. So sue me.”
“I don’t know how discerning those tastes are…”
“I like the shit you make, so you’re really just insulting yourself.”
“Fair point.” I was quiet for a moment. “I’ll miss this.”
“You sound like you’re going off to war. No one’s making you leave. I’m sure