Page 27 of The Oath We Give

It’s fucking embarrassing and weak. I barely scratch the surface of what Faye or any of those other women went through.

To Faye? I’m put together. I’m healed.

But if she could have seen me just the other night, crumbled in the arms of a man I barely knew, fleeing the moment I’d been able to catch my breath, refused to even thank him for what he’d done?

She’d see me much differently.

She would see what I do when I look in the mirror.

I roll my shoulders, telling myself to forget the memory. I’ve gone two years without so much as running into Silas Hawthorne. This is a one-off. I can avoid him for one more; I’ll never have to see him again.

I take my time cleaning the large-sized storefront with manageable rent that was a warehouse that I converted. The interior walls are covered in exposed brick. Paint splatters adorn the concrete floors. The handful of vacant easels sitting in a circle gives each artist plenty of space to create with privacy.

What appears on someone’s canvas belongs to them, unless given permission to belong to others.

It took some time, but I’d been able to create what I thought was a safe space. Even with the faint turpentine scent, the lavender candles I keep lit combat it well.

I climb down from the metal ladder, careful not to spill the watering jug in my hand. I’m surprised all the various planets hanging from the ceiling and scattered around the room have made it this long. The faux ivy along the walls need a new install, and the floors need to be mopped.

I’d gotten this place for selfish reasons in the beginning. I needed a place that I could run away to, make a mess in, create and breathe away from prying eyes. Where the walls could crumble and I could just to exist.

It’s exhausting being so afraid to be anything but defensive and cold.

My parents love telling their friends that it’ll be converted into my very own gallery one day, that I’m just getting my feet wet in the art world. As if I’d share anything else I create with those people.

They’d love that. Letting a stampede of nosey-ass people stomp around my one piece of solace just to get a little more recognition. I made it out of a sex trafficking organization that my fatherunknowinglysupported—isn’t that enough attention?

Art is intimate. It shouldn’t be shared before the artist is ready for it to be viewed, completely stable in their love for the work before opening it to criticism.

As I’m placing the broom back into the supply closet, my phone rings. My heart drops for a second, just a flash, but when I reach into my overall pockets and see Lilac’s name flashing across the screen, I let out a breath.

The moment I press Answer and it’s resting against my ear, her voice floats through the speaker.

“I didn’t know it was possible for someone to wear this much black,” she says. “Did you know it was picture day, or did you purposefully dress like the fifth member of Kiss?”

I scoff, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Hello to you too, sweet sister.”

“Hi, hello, answer the question.”

Lilac Whittaker drained every ounce of good from her parents when she was born, only gaining more as she grew older. I truly believe it’s her smile that keeps me going, and I’d give the world for her happiness.

I live for her before living for myself most days. Securing her happiness and finding her joy has kept me alive. Every time the darkness creeps in and the dreams get too real, I think of her.

Sweet little Lilac having to find out that I’d taken my own life because I was too tired to carry on. I’d never want her to blame herself or be haunted by my pain. I wouldn’t do that to her.

I’ll suffer through life as long as I need to if it means she can keep her joy.

“Why the fuck are you looking through my school yearbook?”

“Found it in a box in my closet. This is fucking gold.” She laughs a little, and I can hear pages flipping, “You were, like, really committed to the emo thing.”

A smile breaks out across my lips as I make my way across the studio, grabbing a spray bottle of cleaning liquid and a towel to wipe down the stools.

“Black is your mother’s most hated color. I was trying to rebel quietly.”

There is only so much a teenager can do to revolt against her family when you grow up with parents like mine. Since I was old enough to speak, I’ve been testing the limits of their patience.

I gave myself just enough edge to annoy them but kept my grades stellar and art prizes on a shelf so I was still a good little prize horse in the barn. Just wild enough that I scared socialites.

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