Page 48 of There Are No Saints

I work all night long.

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13

Cole

As soon as Mara and I part ways, I make an excuse to the panel and I head back to my own office on the top floor of the building so I can watch what she does next.

All the studios have security cameras mounted above their doors.

The feed from Mara’s streams directly to my computer. When she’s working, I can see her every move.

I watch as she paces the studio, freaking the fuck out.

She held it together in front of me, but now she’s hyperventilating, pulling on her shirt and biting at her nails.

I savor her distress. I want to see her break down.

Or at least, part of me does.

The other part wants to watch her fight.

I enjoy her stubbornness. And I want to crush it out of her.

She pauses in the middle of the studio. Slaps herself hard across the face. The crash echoes in the empty room. I think I am witnessing the moment of fracture.

And maybe I am.

Because Mara cracks. I witness it. But something else steps out from her shell. Someone who stands still, not fidgeting, not tearing at her nails. Someone who doesn’t even glance toward the windows or the doors.

She grabs the half-finished collage and yanks it off the easel. In its place, she throws up a fresh canvas, double the size, and flings a dark wash across it, the paint dripping down onto the floor.

She goes to work, rapidly and rabidly. She’s feverishly focused, paint streaked across her face and down her arms, her eyes fixed on the canvas.

I watch the composition take shape.

She has an excellent eye for proportion, everything in balance.

It’s rare for me to admire other artists’ work. There’s always something to criticize, something out of place. But this is what I noticed about Mara from the moment she dyed that dress: her aesthetic sense is as finely honed as my own.

Watching her work is like watching myself work.

I’m glued to the computer screen, watching for hours as she sketches out her composition and begins to block in the color.

Sonia’s knock on the door startles me. I sit up, frowning as she pokes her head inside.

“You can come out now.” She grins. “The panel’s gone.”

“Good,” I say. “I hate that whole rigmarole.”

She steps into my office, almost tripping over the golf bag set directly behind the door.

“You don’t actually enjoy that game, do you?” she says.

“It’s a game of the mind, not the body. So yes, I enjoy it. You should take it up yourself. You know damn well how much business gets done on the golf course.”

“I know,” Sonia says rebelliously, giving my clubs a venomous glare. “Do you want to look over their scores for the finalists?”

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