Page 183 of Deliverance

It’s past midnight when I finally pull up to the building where my studio is. Unlike during the daytime, the parking spots are empty and every single window is dark.

The first thing I do once I kill the engine is grab my phone and start typing a message to Zander.

A long apology.

An explanation.

But halfway through my novel, I change my mind and delete every single word because they stop making sense.

Coward, the tiny voice in my head whispers.

I reach over to the passenger seat, pick up the silver box, and force it open to look at the ring again. It’s thin and elegant with a single French cut diamond in a pavé setting, and something tells me it was way more expensive than it looks, because that’s just how Zander is.

He’s a man of grand gestures.

Without giving it much thought, I slide the ring onto my finger, the same one where I wore my plain gold band during my marriage to Rhys. Instantly, my hand feels heavier. The ring itself is light at a feather, but it carries the weight of everything that being someone’s spouse entails.

The weight of compromise.

The weight of responsibility.

The weight of fear.

Sick with anxiety, my stomach twists.

A knot somewhere deep within me starts to throb and I ball my fingers into a fist, my nails digging into my skin.

A full minute passes before I unclench my hand and study the crescent-shaped red marks in the center of my palm. Then I put the ring back into the box and step out of the car, right into the cool air that eagerly bites at my bare forearms.

Rushing to escape Zander and his hopeful, pained stare, I didn’t think about grabbing my jacket or anything else from his house, and now this dress is about to face a real challenge.

Once I’m upstairs in the studio, I turn on the lights, set the box on the table, and pop in a random CD.

Harsh, loud music spills into the room from the tiny speakers, filling it with the sounds of drums and guitars, and I begin to pace. The noise vibrates through me, through my exhausted body, pushing me out of my own skin.

I don’t know how much time passes before the images in my mind start to come together, forming a more or less coherent picture.

The next thing I know, I’m unfolding a fresh roll of paper and getting my paint and brushes ready.

There’s a clear vision in my mind of how this new piece needs to look and that’s what I occupy myself with during the next two hours.

I check out.

I forget that I have to decide something about the ring that’s sitting on the edge of the folding table in a small silver box.

Lost in the fusion of angry, desperate notes, I don’t hear the car alarm right away. The noise blends with the instruments currently crowding my studio, and at first, the piercing bleeps seem like part of the song, until music comes to an end and the sound coming in from outside remains.

I rise to my feet, noting a generous splotch of black paint on my skirt, and pad toward the couch to grab the Lexus’s key from my purse.

The alarm continues to scream even after I try all four buttons several times in different succession.

“You gotta be kidding me.” An exasperated sigh escapes my mouth.

Leaving my work in progress to do mundane things is never good. Inspiration is feeble and doesn’t like interruptions. But the distressed chirping outside my window is starting to grate on my nerves, so I grab my studio keys, flip the knob on the lock to ensure the door closes from the inside, and run down the stairs and into the crispy California night.

The Lexus is on fire. Not literally, but close enough. Its strange egg-shaped headlights remind me of the nightclub strobes, each burst cutting into the empty road like an invisible knife.

I round the vehicle and click one of the buttons on the fob, then jerk the driver’s side door open. At that, the shrills of the alarm die.

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