Page 88 of A Second Chance

I laugh. "That's the same thing, Mom."

"Yeah, well. I want you to have a great day and not have your father's news affect you."

I can't blame her for feeling myemotionsmight light up the sky like lightning and strike me down along with everyone around me.

"I'll be okay, Mom," I say to ease her mind. Mom has witnessed many of my episodes, and just like Seth, she knows every trigger that could set me off. I remember all the times Mom became the brunt of my attacks, whether it was verbal or physical. I cringe at the memories that threaten to drown me in my misery. But many of those days, I fought through the web of lies my mind would play with my heart. It's not an excuse to treat someone like crap who has been there for me on my bad and good days. But it can be challenging to control when you're already feelingout of control,and there's no safety net at the end to catch my fall. Once I hit the pavement, the ground sucks me in until I'm buried in the depths of pain and sorrow. In a dark place where no one can hear my screams or my pleas to save me from myself. Loneliness becomes my friend, and it takes days or weeks to pull me out of the abyss.

"Scar?" Mom's soft tone pulls me away from my thoughts. Pain swirls in her eyes.

I give her a reassuring smile. "I'm okay. I need to go." I grab my bag and kiss Mom on the cheek.

"Have a good day, sweetheart."

I blow a raspberry on my son's cheek and kiss his forehead.

"Bye, Mom." Shaun puts his arms out for a hug.

I squeeze him tight and kiss the side of his head. "Be good for Nana, okay?"

He vigorously nods. "I will, Mom."

"Good luck, Mom," he says with a mouthful of food. "I love you.”

Another piece of my heart put together.

* * *

Ising along toNo Doubt's “Underneath It All” as I drive to the gallery. Art has always been my outlet to express whatever feelings I'm experiencing at that moment. Besides medication, art helps calm the banshee within me. The bitch hates when I'm having more good days than bad.

I have always been fascinated by how art can express emotions, tell stories, and capture moments in time. That's why I was thrilled when I landed my dream job at the local art gallery.

Every day, I arrive at work and marvel at the beautiful paintings, sculptures, and photographs that adorn the gallery's walls. I enjoy helping visitors explore the exhibits and sharing my knowledge about the artists and their work.

But my favorite part of the job is when new pieces arrive at the gallery. I carefully unpack the paintings and sculptures, admiring them as I do so. I then work with Mallory to decide where each piece should be displayed, considering factors like lighting, color, and theme.

I pull my Honda SRV into the back parking lot. Turning the ignition off, I slip out of the car and lock the doors. I pull my jacket tighter when a moderately chilly yet gentle breeze sweeps over me.

I walk through the employee entrance and almost smack into Heidi, Mallory's assistant.

"Oh, shit. Are you okay?" she asks, holding her hand to her chest. Heidi's classic, jaw-length bob shapes her oval face perfectly.

I laugh. "Yeah, I'm okay." It's not like she can hurt me. The woman is so thin you can see the outline of her collarbone.

Heidi gives me a warm smile. "Okay, I have to make a quick errand, but I'll be back soon." She rushes past me and out the door.

After I set my purse in the employee locker, I clock in and make my way to the gallery. Many paintings are on display, but my favorite is by an unknown local artist who used oil painting to create his masterpiece. I'm staring at a picture with blotches of color, but if you pay close attention, you can see several heads trying to separate from the girl's body. It's calledeuphoric. It's breathtaking and peaceful.

When you first walk into the gallery, the room is open and spacious, with gray-hued floors providing a neutral backdrop for the exhibition of artwork. Mallory has the most preeminent modern and contemporary design collections featuring various designs, including architecture, furniture, and industrial and graphic design.

The day goes by slowly, and the flow of traffic is quieter than usual. I'm responding to client emails when my phone vibrates beside me. I check to see who's texting me, and my blood freezes when I see Skylar's name on the screen. I haven't spoken to her since Seth's funeral. We make no effort to stay in touch, and I'm not crying about it.

Messages continue to come through one after the other. My mood shifts the moment I read the words.

Skylar

I know you are the reason Mav is ignoring my calls. Do you honestly believe that he came back to be with you?

How did she get my number?

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