Page 61 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“He told me he’ll sign the papers and officially sell you the place if you submit a piece to the gallery,” I add.

With a slight shake of his head, Milo’s knuckles turn white around the steering wheel. “Meddling fucker.”

“Yes, he is, Milo,” I reply. “But I don’t see the harm in submitting––”

“Of course, you don’t,” he scoffs, surprising me with his bitterness. He was smiling ten seconds ago. And even though I could tell he was getting a little flustered, I didn’t think he was pissed. Until now.

How the hell did we get from there to here so quickly?

Flinching back, my jaw drops, and my earlier playfulness dissipates into a wisp of hurt. “Excuse me?”

“Forget it,” he mutters. I can tell he’s trying to backpedal, but I’m not about to let him off the hook. Not when there’s so much disgust in his words.

“No. I wanna know,” I tell him.

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. What’s the harm in submitting a piece to an art gallery looking to showcase new artists?”

“Can you drop it?” he seethes.

“No. I’m not gonna drop it. I wanna know why you’re scared.”

“I only commit to shit I succeed in.”

“Which is why I don’t get it,” I conclude, accepting the proverbial jab he tossed my way a few seconds ago. “Gee, thanks.”

His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t reply. Again.

Because I’m right. But the really pathetic part is, he’s right too. I don’t succeed in shit. I’m a twenty-six-year-old single mother with an entry-level position as a receptionist I only got because I know the soon-to-be owner, who I’m also living with because I can’t afford to buy my own place.

So freaking pathetic.

My fingernails dig into my crossed arms before I turn and face him fully.

Because even though he has a point, his judgment isn’t fair. He has no right to put me in the box. The one labeling me a failure while he’s all high and mighty because he’s too scared to try something he isn’t sure he’ll succeed in.

“You know what? Bullshit,” I spit, lashing out blindly. “I might not succeed in everything I do, but at least I’m living. At least I’m willing to take the leap and try new things, even if I’m not guaranteed success.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he returns, a crack spreading through his calm, albeit prickly façade.

“It means you’re so damn set on everything being in perfect order, with the perfect little outcome, you miss out on amazing opportunities because you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Bullshit,” I spit again. “You’re afraid of everything––”

The car jerks to the right, and my arm bashes against the passenger side as Milo yanks the steering wheel and pulls over, slamming his car into park. His entire body is vibrating with anger. His face is red. His jaw looks like it could cut glass. And his eyes are stone cold as he stares blankly in front of him.

Seems I’ve pissed him off.

Good.

He pissed me off too.

“I’m not afraid,” he repeats, his tone low and full of malice.

But I refuse to back down.

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