Page 104 of Reluctantly You

“Hey,” I say, coming to a stop near him. “You okay?”

“Mhm.”

I hand him his canvas and he doesn’t even look at it, his eyes landing everywhere but where they should.

“Let’s go check on Rory,” he says, striding toward my car and tapping on the trunk.

I pop it open and he tosses the canvas inside, not even giving it a second glance. But I do. I stare at it, the beautiful swirls of color sitting against the black carpet of my car.

So easily discarded.

It begs to be shown, to be seen.

“Let’s stop by my place first. I have something I need to do,” I say as I slide into the driver’s side.

He nods and I steer us toward my place, my mind awash with the man beside me. How can someone who behaves like him be so fucking intriguing? The man I thought was just a spoiled brat is so much more. There are layer upon layers I have yet to peel back.

That he has yet to discover himself.

“Will you be seeing your therapist again?” I ask.

He scoffs and turns his gaze out the window. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I am. Monday and Wednesday. I have shit to…say.”

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. Good. That’s fucking good.

He needs to process all of this with someone other than me.

Not that I don’t want to hear it, but he needs a professional.

My car shuts off as soon as I pull into my driveway, and I step out, popping the trunk and grabbing the art that had been thrown in the back.

“What are you doing?” he asks as I make my way to my front door and unlock it.

“You’ll see,” I reply, making my way through to the laundry room. I pull out a hammer and a lone nail and walk toward the entrance of the house. Mitchell’s throat is bobbing as I set his piece of art on the floor and hammer a nail right into the wall.

My fingers gingerly pick up his art and hang it, straightening it out until it’s just right.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says, his voice cracking slightly.

“Why not? It’s beautiful. I want everyone to see it when they come into my house.”

He swipes at his eyes and stares at it. “I’m not a professional. I’m just…me.”

“And that’s why I want it here. I want a piece of you, Mitchell. I want the real you.”

His voice is a whisper. “I don’t know who that is anymore.”

I turn and stand behind him, reaching up and cupping his chin, forcing him to look at what he created.

“Look. Look at that. That’s you. And it’s fucking perfection.”

“It’s not perfect. It’s a mess.”

My fingers tighten on his chin. “No. That’s what you see. What everyone else sees… is something unique, something beautiful.”

“Shut up. Shut up,” he says as he turns into me and wraps his arms around my waist, just for a moment, before pulling away.

“What are you going to do with yours?” he asks, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

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