Lauren Sanders is struggling to rebuild her life with her aunt and cousin after her family's tragic death. But what no one knows is the truth about two things: how her parents really died and her battle with schizophrenia.
One day, Lauren stumbles...
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It took us an hour and almost thirty minutes to get here to Los Angeles. A city famous for its Mediterranean climate, not exactly a fact I know of because I googled it and it was the first thing that came up.
We didn't expect that there would be traffic on the way here but at least we were prepared with snacks that I purchased earlier at the school vending machine that I never had the opportunity to eat during lunchtime.
The sun is already burning hot over us, and the roads here are more alive than the streets in Carlsbad. From time to time, I could see myself going here, but never staying here. Perhaps living for years in a certain city or town would make you uncomfortable with the prospect of leaving that area. Or at least, this is what it's been making me feel ever since the thought of leaving Carlsbad crossed my mind.
"It should be around Melrose Avenue," Aaren says, looking at his phone that was attached to a phone holder on the dashboard of his car.
Honestly speaking, Aaren would be the last person I would ever imagine going on an adventure in the search of my mom's original paintings. He would still be the last guy I would ever tell the story of my life with, but it was as if nothing had changed ever since I told him something about me. Perhaps it's true what they say that it is easier to talk to a stranger than someone you know. After all, they can't judge you since you're both strangers.
"I'm sure it's around this corner—"
"I see it!" I yell which took him off-guard. He nearly jumped in his seat the moment I yelled and started pointing at his side of the window.
Studio Bazaar it reads. I unbuckled my seatbelt the moment Aaren parked the car. I instantly hopped out of the car; my eyes glued to the name of the studio. I look from left to right before crossing the street and there it stood before me.
"Wow. Thanks for waiting for me. I really appreciate it," Aaren says sarcastically. I look at him, rolling my eyes and laughing as I apologize.
Feeling nervous never crossed my mind until I started feeling it right now. My hands are shaking and I shake the shakiness out of my hand as if that would help. I look at Aaren as he looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed and his face confused.
"Why are you so nervous? We're just here to see a painting," He says nonchalantly.
"Not just any painting," I remind him. "It's my mom's painting."
"...Right," He says, sounding unsure and weirded out.
"Then, what are we still doing here? Let's head inside," Aaren says as he fans himself with his hand, "I'm dying from the heat of the Los Angeles sun."
I chuckle at him as we both entered the art gallery. The doors slide open and we were instantly fanned by the soothing, cold air conditioning unit of the place. A woman stood up from her seat to greet us.
"Welcome to Studio Bazaar. How may I help you?" She asks. I read a name tag that was pinned on her right black blazer. Emily.
