The Art of You

An hour had gone by since I’d woken in the theater room, discovering Alessandro working on his laptop instead of Hudson next to me.

After I’d rubbed the sleep from my eyes, he’d sucker-punched me with the news. He ripped the Band-Aid off quick and dirty, letting me know I’d need a bottle of antacids the second I went online.

Apparently curiosity didn’t only kill the cat, it killed me. I wasted no time in demanding my phone he’d taken from my room and was holding hostage.

I’d skipped over my mother’s worried texts and voicemails, since she clearly was privy to the news, and I embarked on a journey down the rabbit hole of social media. Let’s just say it was no Wonderland.

Keyboard warriors on steroids were rampant, spreading lies and filth about Hudson and my family. Now I understood why Hudson was MIA. Alessandro told me he’d needed air, and he didn’t want to share that air with anyone.

My first reaction—aside from wanting to test if a cell phone was flushable—was to head to the beach. Not to take a casual stroll, but to dive into the cold Atlantic, hoping to stop myself from responding to the comments and slanderous accusations.

Alessandro seized my phone again and forbade any cold-water plunges. He even went as far as assigning one of the guys protecting us here to follow me everywhere while he continued chasing leads.

Malik, one of Constantine’s most trusted operators, was currently hovering in the hallway outside my bedroom like another overprotective brother. And what was I doing? Standing by the window, marinating in my emotions, waiting for Hudson’s return.

Wanting to forget the horridness I’d read, I decided to fill my mind with memories of my time in the theater room with Hudson. I still couldn’t believe I passed out watching The Shining with my head on his lap. Somehow, our afternoon together had been perfect. And perfect wasn’t something I’d expected to get out of today considering why we were at this house in the first place.

“My God, Izzy.”

My shoulders startled back as Callie’s voice abruptly cut through my thoughts.

I turned to see her in my bedroom doorway, staring at the easel that hadn’t budged from its current position in over fourteen years.

“Did you draw that?” She came into the room, her cowgirl boots clicking across the hardwoods on her way to the canvas that’d been parked on the easel for nearly half my life. The only reason it hadn’t collected dust was because my mom made sure it didn’t.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Guilty.”

“I had no idea you were an artist. You’re incredibly talented.”

I let the compliment roll off my shoulders. I didn’t feel talented, I felt like a failure. “It’s unfinished.” I joined her by the very object I’d avoided looking at since we’d stepped foot in this house. “Just like her life.”

“That’s Bianca?” she whispered. “I thought it was a self-portrait.”

“Me? Don’t be silly. Look at her. She’s gorgeous.” I faked a laugh, and Callie playfully swatted the side of my arm.

“Girl.” I interpreted her polite remark as Southern code for Bullshit.

“Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I touched the drawing as if I could reach through the canvas. Dip my hand into the past and actually feel my sister’s face. Be with her while she was still alive. “One person’s masterpiece might be used as another person’s dart board. So, there’s that, too.”

A gentle nudge of affection in the form of an elbow caught me in the ribs.

“She was always reading or writing in the garden when we were here, and I followed her around like a lost puppy,” I said somberly. “I was her shadow. I thought she was the coolest.”

“From what Alessandro has shared about her, she was pretty incredible. Just like you. She’d be proud of the woman you’ve become.” Callie held my arm, then leaned over, resting her head on my shoulder as we both stared at the partially finished sketch. “Do you still draw? Paint? I’m surprised Alessandro never mentioned it.”

“It’s one of those things my family doesn’t bring up at the dinner table, with anyone. You know, an off-limits topic. Like politics. Religion. They avoid conversations about our failures.” This is one of mine. Giving up my passion because I became passionless.

“Hardly call this talent a failure.” She lifted her head, searching for my eyes.

Sometimes I felt guilty about how much I loved having Callie as a sister. And Maria, too, of course. I was scared Bianca would think I was replacing her. It was hard to keep a wall up between them, though. They were experts at knocking them down. After all, Maria cracked Enzo’s, and Callie blew down Alessandro’s.

“I quit because she died, and Bianca would hate that. She’d hate it with every fiber of her being.”

Well, damn. Now I was getting emotional all over again. I’d prefer being pissed off at faceless strangers on the internet to coping with this type of pain. This type didn’t go away with any passage of time. You never truly got over losing someone you loved. And why would I want to?

“I have this fear that if I try to draw again, it’ll be of the crime scene. I’ll see her dead on that floor, resting in her own blood and . . .”

At some point, as I lost myself to my thoughts, Callie had pulled me in for a hug.

“I’m scared I’ll only be able to depict death and sadness. And I’ve had enough sadness fill up my cup to last a lifetime. Why overflow it with the bad, you know?” That was the first time I admitted that. Heck, I’d never even told that to my therapist when she’d pressed me about taking up art again.

Callie gave me time to pull myself together. To work through what I’d admitted, quietly holding me the entire time.

When I finally pulled back, she gestured toward the canvas. “As beautiful as this drawing is, what I think you might need is a blank canvas to start with. You can always come back to this one. And when the time is right, you’ll know.” She met my eyes, and I had to fight back the tears.

“A clean slate?” I murmured more like a question.

“And no rules holding you hostage. Give yourself some grace. If what you create is sad, then it’s sad. Maybe you have to work through your emotions to get to the place you were before.” She let go of me, her tone soft as she added, “And maybe you’ll find yourself somewhere different. Better, even. But you’ll never know if you don’t try.”

I turned toward the window, catching sight of Hudson back on the property. “Thank you,” I finally managed to get out. He was back, and I wanted—no, needed to get to him. “I, um.” I faced her.

“It’s okay. Go to him. I’ll handle Malik so you two can be alone. I’ve got your back.”

“Thank you.” I pulled her in for another hug, forging past the remnants of pain lingering in my limbs. “If I do draw again, you’ve gotta let me sketch you one day. Cowgirl boots. Guitar in hand. My brother would pay good money for that.”

She chuckled, then waved her hand, reminding me I had places to be and all that.

I looked over at my sister on the easel, then to Callie. “Maybe it’s possible I can help Hudson the way you helped my brother.”

“What do you mean?” she asked softly.

“Revive his heart so he can love again.”

“Not possible.” Callie shook her head, then held up her hand between us. “Hudson’s heart isn’t dead. You can tell in the way that man looks at you. You’re the definition of a masterpiece in his eyes. You’re like livin’ art to him.” Her soft Southern accent flowed through her words. “I mean, really. The man has it bad for you.”

“Really?”

“Easy to discern as an objective outsider.”

“Well, you’re no longer an outsider. You’re family. You’re my . . .” I’d said this before, but standing in front of the drawing of Bianca made it feel that much more. “My sister.”

She flicked a tear from the corner of her eye, trying not to get choked up, same as me. “You better go. You’re ruining my mascara,” she laugh-cried. “Go help that man understand he’s allowed to feel what he does and that you both deserve happiness.”

“I’ll do my best, but he’s stubborn.”

“Your brother was also a serious pain in the ass, but I didn’t give up on him. And you’re a fighter like me. I have faith you’ll knock some sense into him eventually. Then you can draw me, and I’ll write a song about you two. A fair trade from where I stand.”

“Got a title?” I teased. And then the reality of what happened sank in. Callie had managed to do the impossible. She’d helped me take that polar plunge, washing away my anger without ever having to get cold and wet in the freezing Atlantic.

“Work in progress.” She winked. “But aren’t we all?”

“Touché.”

A devious smile crossed her lips a beat later. “It’s close enough to bedtime, right?”

Barely seven. “For a toddler,” I said with a laugh.

“Maybe you should change for the night before talking with Hudson.” She lifted her brows up and down suggestively, waiting for me to get her drift.

I went to the doorway and stole a look at Malik in the hall. His back was to the wall, one booted foot propped up as he read something on his phone. Hopefully not the rumors about my family.

I quietly shut the door. “You want me to put on PJs before I talk to him? Hudson will lose his mind with me walking around like that in a house full of security.”

She slapped her hands together, then focused on my dresser. “Precisely.”

“It didn’t work before,” I said as she opened up a dresser drawer. “I wore a bikini around him at his apartment in June, and he didn’t so much as give me a passing glance.”

Callie continued to rummage through the drawers filled with clothes she’d packed for me, seemingly unsatisfied. Tossing me a look from over her shoulder, she shared, “And did you know he spent almost all of his time at the office or hunting assholes with Alessandro because he couldn’t handle being near you that weekend? At least, that’s what Alessandro told me.” She punctuated that bit of info with a devious wink.

“Wait, really? I was driving him nuts? Like in a good way, I mean?”

“So nuts he had to release his tension by chasing down jerks with my husband. And for a man who is allegedly a one-night, non-committal kind of guy, you’d think he’d have handled his pent-up energy in a different way.”

And he didn’t. Shit. She was right. Hudson could’ve easily spent those two nights I was at his place with another woman. Instead, he came back every single night, moody and scowly, but he always returned. “You’re giving me too much hope.” My stomach knotted, nerves returning for a different reason than before.

“Well, as Dolly Parton likes to say, ‘We can’t just hope for a brighter day, we have to work for a brighter day.’”

“Seize the moment. C’est la vie, huh?”

“Absolutely.” She settled on something from the dresser and tossed it at me. “Now, go fight for what you want.”