Page 179 of Under the Lies

I can’t believe I’d denied myself this kind of feeling for so long.

I mourned for so long in all the wrong ways, I was never able to heal. But now I can feel the ache, the hole in my chest start to fill.

My movements become almost frantic as I race to capture the picture in my head, as I chase the feeling it’s creating inside me. Painting has always felt like breathing to me and it finally feels like I’m taking my first breath, crisp air hugging my lungs.

I paint until my hand cramps and the sun sinks behind the buildings to make way for the moon.

I paint until I’m speckled with colors.

I paint with tears running down my face.

I paint to heal.

I paint to feel.

I paint to get to know me again.

I paint toward the future I want instead of the past I had.

The painting, when I finally finish, is of happiness.

Hours later, when I can finally drag myself away from my easel, I make my way to Noah’s.

The sun has long since gone down. The people out have long since had dinner and are now looking to party. My hands are tight, cramped from holding a paintbrush for so long. I don’t mind it. In fact, it’s a welcomed pain that I’ve missed.

My clothes are ruined, covered in an array of acrylic colors. And my entire body hurts from standing in the same position for so long.

But I’m happy. Weightless.

Painting and art has always been a huge part of my life and even though my muscles ache and I’m exhausted, I can’t wait for tomorrow. To paint again.

I’m on this cloud as I ride up the elevator to Noah’s. A cloud I quickly fall off of as soon as the doors open.

Noah’s standing in the hallway, waiting for me. Pan seated at his feet. Both are giving me a hard stare.

“Where have you been?” Noah asks, low. I can feel the energy pounding out of him. He’s still but in that stillness lays a man on the cusp of losing control.

I tell myself not to read into it as I step farther into the room, stripping off my coat and scarf and hanging them on the coat rack. “I went to my apartment.”

It becomes deathly quiet. Noah looks pissed, so pissed I’m not sure he’s even breathing.

“Why?” he finally bites out, a whip cracking in the air.

Oh really? I raise a brow. He’s pissed about that? About me not coming back until a couple of hours after I usually do, but he doesn’t have to come home at all?

I don’t think so, mister.

“Because I wanted to.” I march past him and he reaches out, snagging my elbow.

“Because you wanted to?” he repeats, dryly. “Because you wanted to. Of course.” He lets out a short chuckle in disbelief. “And you didn’t think to check your phone at all?”

Actually, no. I was so caught up in creating, the rest of the world faded away.

My silence only fuels Noah, his face is pinched in anger. He pulls me into him. “You drive me fucking crazy, wanting to go up the wall with worry.”

“You were worried about me?” I pull back to stare at his face, his clenched jaw.

The look he sends me makes me wish I hadn’t asked.

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