Page 31 of Her Second Chance

My eyes widen. “Really?” No guy has ever wanted to see my art, not even Jason, and definitely not Hunter. I mean, Jason would come to my art shows, but he never asked me what I was working on. And with Hunter, I’d all but stopped creating once we got together. In fact, I’d done nothing at all in the last few years of our relationship.

“Of course I do. Your stuff sounds cool. The way your face lights up when you talk about your art makes me feel like I’m missing out on truly knowing you if I don’t also see your work.”

Um, wow. I’m a goner. He’s burrowed his way into my heart, and I don’t think he’ll ever leave now. “Do you want to see it? I mean, right now?” We’re close to the art building, and I have a code that lets me into the studio area.

He nods. “Can I?”

The fact that he wants to see my art when I just told him I wanted him to fuck me doesn’t fit with what I know about guys his age. Well, guys period, really. He should be rushing me to a private location, not trying to share something I love. Yeah, I’m definitely not going to be able to get over him any time soon.

I take his hand as we get closer to the art building. His eyes widen and his head turns on a swivel when we walk inside. Various displays from different course levels cover the walls.

He slows to admire the artwork. “Are any of these yours?”

I shake my head no. “These are all from upper-level courses. I’m just a freshman. I won’t have any work on display for another two years.”

He goes from piece to piece, admiring each one. “I’ve never been in here before. This stuff is amazing.” He stops in front of a collage that shows one of the supreme court justices screaming and crying while holding a pair of bloody panties in one hand and a can of beer in the other. “Are all artists this political?” His tone tells me he’s somewhat shocked by the subject matter which was the artist’s intent.

I shrug. “Most are. I think it’s because we represent what’s going on in the world, which is hard to show without coming across as political. We pour a lot of ourselves into our work, so our beliefs are bound to show up in our creations, whether intentionally or not. Music and books are the same way.” I gesture to the collage in front of him. “I mean, that’s not unintentional, but you know what I’m saying.” I point to another painting, depicting a woman in a hospital gown with hundred-dollar bills flying out of her chest. “This one is much more subtle.”

He nods, thinking over my words. “I never thought about that, but I guess that makes sense. You’re showing the world through your own personal lens.”

I tug him inside the studio and flip on the lights, surprised no one is in here. Usually, it’s pretty full this time of night. I walk over to the racks and pull one of my larger oil paintings out to show him.

“Close your eyes,” I say, suddenly nervous to show him my work. It’s so much a part of me that if he doesn’t like or understand it, then he doesn’t really understand me. Even though we’re not destined to end up together, I still want us to know each other as deeply as possible.

He does what I ask, waiting while I set the piece up on an easel. I can’t help but grin at the way he puts his hands over his eyes, reminding me of a little kid. I’m going to miss him. Hell, he’s right here, and I already miss him.

“Okay, you can look now.” My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for him to say something.

This is my most recent piece. I started it the day after I woke up in this timeline. It’s the first thing I’ve painted in three years. Instead of my typical style, it’s more abstract. I’ve taken a self-portrait and incorporated fantasy elements that represent time travel. Eighteen-year-old me looks straight out as thirty-one-year-old me sits in the corner in my wedding dress holding a bottle of tequila.

“It’s beautiful.” He stands in front of the painting, taking in every inch. “Holy shit,” he whispers.

“What?”

He points to a symbol I’ve painted throughout the background. It’s a stylized skeleton key with a lion's head. “When did you see this?”

I shrug. “It’s something I keep seeing when I close my eyes. I don’t know what it represents.”

He turns to the side, lifting his shirt, showing me his ribs bearing the same key, freshly inked on his skin.

I gasp. This is the first time I’ve seen his tattoo. I knew he had ink there, but in the magazine photos, his arm covered most of it. What does this mean?

“I just got this yesterday.” His voice is filled with confusion, as if this moment between us isn’t really happening.

I swallow hard. “What is it?”

“My grandmother wore a necklace with this key. My grandfather made her a wooden box for her secrets and treasures. This is the key. When she died a few years ago, it was written in her will that she wanted to be buried with the box and the key. No one was allowed to open it. She wanted to take her secrets to the grave. I got this tattoo in honor of her.”

What the fuck? Why did I paint Brock’s exact tattoo before I’d met him? This can’t be a coincidence. “How–?”

He pulls me into his chest, kissing me like we’re the last two people on earth. I grip his biceps, losing myself in the moment. Nothing has ever felt more right. Fate has twisted and looped until I have no idea where I’m headed. All I know is I can’t mess up my second chance. There’s no way I’ll get another chance after this.

Just thinking about the future sends a white-hot flash of pain blinking behind my eyes, forcing me to pull back, ending the kiss. “Brock–“ I rub my temples, feeling sick to my stomach.

“When are you going to start fighting for us? I need you to wake up. Choose me. . . Please.” He sounds so desperate I want to cry.

I close my eyes, hoping to ward off the pain that’s turned into a dull throb. “I can’t risk everything. What if you leave me too?” I whisper. My heart is fragile, and I must guard it at all costs. I’m not strong enough to let this silly infatuation break it. But if it’s just a silly infatuation, why does the thought of walking away hurt so much?

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