Page 79 of Double or Nothing

For years, my black line has been the thing that never moves.

The prison bar of reality.

Expectation.

The immovable spine through everything I create. The rule. The don’t. The be sensible, Alice. The remember who you are, Alice. The don’t embarrass your father, Alice. The don’t love Bryce Maddocks because it will complicate everything and everyone will suffer, Alice.

But here, tonight, for the first time since I rejected Bryce like a stupid idiot, it bends.

Maybe reality isn’t as fixed as I think it is.

The laugh that comes out of me is half sob, half hysteria. I press both paint-streaked hands to my bare tits, staring at the canvases like they’re staring right back at me.

The work is good. Really good. I like it.

No. Fuck that.

I love it.

This trio of canvases might well be the best thing I’ve ever made. Not the most polished. Not the most saleable. But the truest.

My truest.

Holy crap, I need Bryce and Jack to see the triage they helped create. The thought hits me so hard I almost trip over a palette on the way to the door.

Jack will laugh it off at first, obviously. He’ll tilt his gorgeous head and say something dumbass about the red looking like a crime scene. Then he’ll look again. Properly. With those blue eyes that see far too much and pretend they don’t give a toss about any of it.

And as for Bryce…

My heart cries out.

Bryce will understand.

Maybe not the way I understand it. Not entirely. But he’ll understand what it means when the black line bends. He’ll see it. He’ll know. Because once upon a time he knew me better than anyone in the world, and this weekend, for one reckless, impossible stretch of hours, I’ve known him like that again, too.

I don’t remember quite when the guys left me painting. I remember Jack saying something about us getting paint in places paint never usually gets to see. I do remember Bryce hovering by the door with his hair in a ruffle, looking nothing like the Bryce of business breakfasts and merger reports.

I bolt for the stairs.

“Bryce! Jack! You have to see this!”

No answer.

I thunder my way down, two steps at a time.

“Jack,” I laugh. “Get me a mug of a prosecco. I deserve one!”

Still nothing.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

My steps slow down as I reach the living room, heart lurching. The morning light down here is far less magical. It spills across the clutter, showing no life in it.

There is no Bryce. No Jack, either.

I walk through to the kitchen.