Page 23 of My Sweetest Obsession
“Yes.” I nod slowly. “I’ve read the play.”
She laughs lightly. “I found it a little boring, to be honest, but my understanding is that the liver is regarded by the Greeks as the holder of intelligence, the soul, the heart of life, so to speak. And so, when Zeus set this perpetual torture, Prometheus’s regenerating liver every day for the eagle to devour again and again and again, he was striking at the very things that made Prometheus so captivated by man. The intelligence he gave them, the art he gave them that spoke to their souls, the life he gave man by allowing them to thrive in beauty.” Her eyes lock on me, and even with my focus straight ahead, I shift restlessly under her scrutiny and the topic of conversation. “You know you do that, right?”
I turn my head fully toward her, unsure where she’s going with this. “What do you mean?”
A sad smile pulls at her lips. “You give people art. You speak to their souls. I’ve watched you grow since art school, and even though I know better than to reveal your secret, I can’t help but want to scream from the rooftops that ‘I know him!’ Because God, you’re so fucking talented.”
My cheeks heat at the compliment, and I drop my head down. “I didn’t come here looking for compliments, Roxy.”
“I know that, but it’s still true. Your pieces, especially the ones you leave in the most unexpected of places, always have a message people need to see. Something poignant about life, the struggle of man, love, regret. All the things we all feel and sometimes can’t express.” She releases a little laugh. “You somehow do it with something simple like a little girl holding a balloon. We all remember what that felt like as a child. The simple joy of clutching that string in our tiny hand and having the colorful friend floating along with us. It said so much so simply, that we all needed to remember those moments when our struggles made the world seem bleak. That’s why people love your work, Cam. And we haven’t seen much from you lately…”
I offer her a wry grin. “My recent works aren’t really fit for public consumption.”
Not when they’re all Ivy and have been for years.
Roxy offers me a tight smile. “Well, I hope that changes soon and that you’re back to being the Cush we all need and love.”
Love?
Did she love me?
I knew she had feelings for me beyond friendship. We had danced around it over the years, flirting and casually joking about hooking up. But neither of us ever took that leap. Until I was already falling and looking for anything to cling to.
“I really am sorry about everything.”
She leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’m a big girl, Camden. I knew something was happening with you. I didn’t understand the depths of your addiction, or I would have tried to intervene, but I knew that night that you weren’t running to me but from something.” Her slender shoulders rise and fall. “I think, deep down, I had hoped things might change between us after that. They didn’t, and that’s okay. I still value our friendship. And I hope now that we’re both here in Philly, things won’t be awkward.”
I shake my head, my heart swelling at how easily she’s willing to forgive me when I don’t really deserve it. “They won’t.”
Because besides Mom, she’s the only person I have left in this world I can turn to, and one day, I may come completely clean with her about what went down with Drew and Ivy, though I have a feeling she already suspects as much.
She climbs to her feet. “Good.” Facing me, she smiles. “Now, I’m starving. If we’ve gotten over the whole making-amends portion of my lunch hour, let’s go down and at least get a coffee at the café.”
I grin at her. “Deal. But I’m buying. I owe you at least that much.”
Her light laughter fills the gallery. “Well, in that case, you can buy me something to eat, too.”
Pushing to my feet, I can’t help but allow my gaze to fall back onto the painting where the eagle feasts on the source of Prometheus’s wisdom and what holds his soul.
For years, it’s felt as though I was being picked at, something eating away at me from the inside, but now that I know the truth about how Drew felt and what I caused, it’s suddenly become so much worse.
That bird looks harmless compared to the demons tearing me apart.
8
CAM
SEVEN WEEKS LATER
As I stare at the canvas lying at my feet, Roxy’s words from weeks ago continue to ring in my ears, just as they have every time I’ve picked up a paintbrush since our talk.
“Your pieces, especially the ones you leave in the most unexpected of places, always have a message people need to see. Something poignant about life, the struggle of man, love, regret. All the things we all feel and sometimes can’t express.”
Before Drew’s death, I never had trouble expressing anything this way. Whether I was angry, frustrated, happy, confused, high, lonely, or just strung out, I’ve always been able to vent it through my art. And it’s always felt right once it’s on the canvas or wall.
But now, there are so many things I can’t express.
Either because I haven’t figured out what I’m actually feeling when my emotions are a conflicting jumble or because there isn’t any way to truly do it.
