In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
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THERE ARE ROCKS UNDER my bed, well, not really, but it feels like there is. I can't get comfortable, and I can't fall asleep. I've been up for the past four hours, twisting and turning. I look over at the almost completed painting for the Lumina exhibit and I sigh, well, if I'm not catching any Z's I might as well be productive. I get up and quickly slip on an extra pair of socks and a thick sweater before grabbing my easel and paint supplies. And I'm careful not to wake Samara as I creep out to the front porch.
I set everything down and make myself comfortable on the floor, leaning back on my forearms and looking out over the railing. The snow is falling around the streetlight, and it brings back memories of Robin and me sitting on the front steps all those Christmases ago. Not a care in the world but what animal their parents would let them adopt, and oblivious to what the future would bring. I think about Paris next. I want to tell him about the art exhibition. I want his support and validation. I want him to see the pieces of my soul laid bare on canvas, and that's okay because if there's anything I've learned it's that healing isn't linear.
I sigh and sit up, squeezing brown paint into my paint tray and getting lost, in my art. Each dab of paint is deliberate, and each line is purposeful until my thoughts drift away to a place where only me and my paintbrush exist. I startle when Samara clears her throat and when I turn around, she's leaning against the door with a sleepy smile on her face and her nose red from the cold.
“I didn't hear you come out,”
“I know. I called you three times,” she says, tilting her head to the side to give my painting a contemplative frown. “You're insanely talented, Ray-Ray,”
“Thank you,” I answer, setting my paintbrush down.
“It's depressing, though,”
“You think?” I ask, looking back at the painting with a frown of my own. It's called 'Acceptance Is a Small Quiet Room' after Chery Strayed, and it's the piece I'm supposed to make after a quote. The painting shows a man sitting in a dimly lit room, illuminated by a single candle on his bedside table and the moonlight coming through an open window. He's sitting in a chair that faces the window with his feet stretched out and crossed at the ankles and his fingers intertwined behind his head. Despite the sparseness of the room, which contains only the table with the candle, the chair he's sitting in, and the small bed in the corner of the room, there's a small smile on the man's face as he looks out at the moon. Even amid the isolation.
“I guess it's kind of sad,”
“You're a talented artist, Ray-Ray. Even if no one buys your paintings,”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, packing up my paint supplies and standing up. She gives me a playful roll of her eyes and puts her hands on her hips.
“Now go put your shoes on, we need to go to a Way Mart or something,”
