Page 204 of From Rivals to I Do

"I wanted to talk to you about your rent," he says, his tone measured. "You're behind on your payments, and I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave if you don't catch up soon."

His words hang heavy in the air, and I feel a mix of frustration and desperation welling up within me. This studio is my sanctuary, my haven where I can let my creativity soar. The thought of losing it is like a blow to the chest.

"I'll try to catch up as soon as I can," I reply, my voice tinged with determination. "My art is my lifeline, Tom. I can't imagine being without this space."

Tom sighs, his expression softening. "I understand, Maya. Believe me, I do. But the landlord has been pressing for payment, and I need to consider the financial stability of the studio as a whole."

"Is there anything else I can do?" I ask, my voice pleading. "I could take on extra responsibilities, help out with the organization, or even teach art classes. I'll do whatever it takes to make this work."

Tom's gaze softens, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes. "I appreciate your dedication, Maya. Let me think about it and see if we can find a compromise. Perhaps there's a way for you to contribute more to the studio while still pursuing your own art."

As I leave Tom's office, my mind races with possibilities. I sit back down at my easel, but I can't stop thinking about my bills and the possibility of being kicked out. I try to focus on my work, but every stroke of the brush feels heavy and burdensome.

After what feels like an eternity, the studio begins to empty out, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. I gather my brushes, cleaning them meticulously, each stroke an act of reverence for the craft I hold dear. I pack up my supplies and head out into the street, my mind still preoccupied.

***

I step into the bustling café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods enveloping me in a warm embrace. It's a place I often retreat to when I

need a break from the chaos of my own mind. The soft hum of conversation and the clinking of cups create a symphony of sounds that lull my senses.

I spot an empty table near the window, a perfect spot to indulge in some people-watching. I settle into the worn chair, the cool metal against my skin a

stark contrast to the warmth of the café. As I sip my steaming latte, my eyes wander lazily around the room, taking in the diverse cast of characters.

And then, my gaze lands on him.

Jackson Reed.

I feel an involuntary cringe ripple through me. Jackson is sitting at a table across the room, his broad shoulders seemingly taking up all the space. He's

engrossed in a newspaper, his brows furrowed in concentration, and a cup of black coffee sits untouched by his side. The sight of him alone irritates me, and I can't help but wonder how he manages to be such a dominant presence even in a crowded café.

My mind flashes back to the vivid memories etched into the tapestry of my childhood, to the bitter seeds that sprouted our strained relationship. I

remember the times when Jackson, my brother Kendrick's loyal companion, would join forces with him to taunt and tease me mercilessly, their words like

barbs aimed at my youthful spirit. They were an unlikely duo that seemed hell-bent on tormenting me. Mocking my artistic endeavors, they would jeer at

my sassy remarks, my belligerent defiance against conformity, as if my unapologetic spirit was an offense that needed correction. Their mischievous

laughter would echo through the halls of our childhood home, a symphony of mischief that heralded their arrival.

In those moments, my heart would burn with frustration and anger. I fought tooth and nail, determined to defend my artistic sensibilities, to protect the

flame of creativity that burned within me. But their relentless jabs pierced through my armor, leaving behind wounds that festered and forged the

foundation of our tumultuous relationship.

As we grew older, our paths diverged even further. While I pursued my artistic passions with unwavering determination, Jackson became a man whose life

revolved around structure and control. His path led him to the realm of firefighting, where he found solace and purpose in a world dictated by protocols and

precise actions. We have since been two opposing forces, destined to clash and challenge one another at every turn.

Through the years, our encounters at family gatherings became ever more strained, the underlying tension palpable in the air. We traded barbs and

sarcastic remarks, our words dripping with the weight of unspoken resentment. The rift between us seemed insurmountable, the chasm widening with each passing year.

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