Breakable Read online

  He pointed to Dex and I found another measure of satisfaction because he was exactly right.

  By the time he’d finished waxing lyrical about how I clearly despised my father, held my mother in contempt, and had barely suppressed rage toward Karyn, I was almost in tears – and ready to tell him who I was just so I could thank him for taking the time to look.

  But before I could speak, he moved almost to the center of the wall and stared at my self-portrait. My stomach tightened and my throat closed. The words I was about to say died on my tongue because he was looking at the picture with such sadness I wanted to weep.

  “…the courage it must have taken to use this.” He shook his head, then looked back at me. “I was bullied in high school, too,” he said quietly, conspiratorially.

  Without thought, I scanned him from head to toe.

  He chuckled. “Yes, yes. I wasn’t quite so flamboyant then. But there was no doubt I had…flair.” He laughed a self-deprecating laugh and I couldn’t help but chuckle with him because I knew an understatement when I heard it. I was suddenly fascinated to hear his story.

  “But I never would have had the courage to do this,” he said quietly, the smile fading as he turned back to my painting. “This is an artist who’s willing to lay themselves bare in order to tell the truth.” He nodded once. “And that’s where real art comes from.”

  I swallowed hard. I had to tell him. I had to thank him.

  “I’m determined to sit here all night until she shows up. I’m hoping she’ll agree to–”

  “Look, mister…”

  He blinked, then turns back to me. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been rude! I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Jeremy August, I’m one of the Deans at the Vintner School of Art.” He took the four strides to reach my side, holding out a hand. I knew I should stand, but I was still feeling shaky. And he didn’t know who I was, so I just shook his hand and nodded again.

  “I shouldn’t have been yammering to you. You’re here to celebrate!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “You must be so proud of Mark – another very talented artist, I must say. Such an opportunity to be here with him tonight! So what are you doing hiding back here? You should be standing by his wall! Let the people tell you how beautiful it is – you are, I mean.” He grinned. “The likeness is uncanny. He’s very talented.”

  It was like being buried in a whirlwind of words. “Uh, yes, he is. But I’m not… I mean–”

  “Oh, don’t be shy! Come on, I’ll take you over there. I have some friends who’d love to talk to you.” He took my elbow and pulled me to my feet.

  “Wait! I can’t!”

  “Trust me, dear, this is one of those moments you’ll remember for the rest of your life. Make the most of it. That boy is going places.”

  “No, you don’t understand, I can’t! I have to stay here…with mine.”

  Thankfully, he lurched to a stop. I tugged my elbow out of his grip and straightened my dress. “I’m sorry. I really do appreciate your compliments. But I’m exhibiting too. And they said I have to stay here in case any of the judges come…”

  But he frowned again, looking at me, then at the pictures on the wall. “Oh my… These are yours?” he said, throwing an arm toward my portfolio. He sounded so aghast I wished I could go back to the lie. But it was too late for that.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you–”

  “No, no, don’t apologize. I didn’t really give you a chance to tell me, did I?” he said ruefully.

  “I think–”

  “But I never would have recognized you from this,” he said, gesturing towards my painting.

  I frowned. “Well, either you’re being nice, or I’m a terrible painter then, because that’s a self-portrait. And it’s only a few months old.”

  “Oh, no dear, I assure you, now that I know, I can see it’s a perfect likeness. But I wouldn’t have recognized you from it because the heart of it… you’re different. This isn’t you.”

  I wasn’t sure that was entirely true, but I offered him a grateful smile because it was easier to pretend it was.

  “Thank you. For saying that. And those other things… you were very kind. And mostly right.”

  I was startled when he boomed a laugh in response. “Mostly right… oh dear, you are a firecracker, aren’t you!”

  “No! No, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “It’s fine–”

  “No, I meant–” I turned toward the wall, intending to tell him that I hadn’t thought as deeply about Finn’s lips as he thought – that he’d given me too much praise. But my eyes fell on the pink letters and that awful graffiti, and I stood there, finally, frozen in its glare.

  My own face, haggard and sad, stared back at me, and for a moment it was as if Older Me were here…

  As if I was her.

  Because I remembered the moment when I painted that expression. It was how I felt. So hopeless and…heavy.

  And it occurred to me, as my eyes followed the lines of the letters, and my lips silently formed their sounds, that I didn’t feel that way anymore.

  “I meant what I said, dear,” Jeremy murmured at my side. “I find your courage…humbling.”

  “I don’t have courage.”

  “Of course you do, sweetheart. You just haven’t grown up enough yet to realize courage isn’t fearless.” He patted my shoulder and turned. I thought he was walking away. I thought our conversation was done. Part of me was glad. I wanted to be alone with my picture. But part of me wondered whether he thought I was good enough to go art school. And if he admired my stuff, why didn’t he–

  “Here,” Jeremy said. I looked back. He held out a slim, glossy pamphlet.

  When I took it my hands shook.

  He patted my shoulder again. “Unfortunately, Stacy, bullying doesn’t stop when you grow up. It just looks a little different.” He wrinkled his patrician nose and shook his head. “Don’t let the snooty buffoons who run this tell you that you’re unfinished, or too green. Your work isn’t green. It’s honest. Raw.” He cleared his throat, then met my eyes. “Vintner isn’t large. And it doesn’t have quite such a prestigious name as the Institute, or CFA. But we won’t try to turn you into someone else. And we won’t denigrate your work. We believe in trial and error. And we believe in letting you tell us who you should be.”

  He straightened his sash and pushed back his shoulders. “Just don’t let them make you think you’re lacking. They’ll jump all over Mark because he’s so polished. And they may give you a chance, too. But I hope you’ll consider us anyway.” He flashed a wide smile. “With us, you can be proud of exactly who you are. Right now. And I promise, you’ll never be mistaken for someone else.”

  He winked and I gasped. But before I could ask if he knew who I was all along, he was already talking.

  “And stop sitting back as if you don’t deserve to be here. Even those Apes could see that you do. It takes a lot out of an artist to show their plain face to the world, like this.” He gestured towards my work again.

  I snort. “I didn’t have much choice,” I muttered, not really meaning it for a reply.

  “Oh, you might be surprised, my dear.”

  When I looked at him, he offered a sad smile, but then he brightened and sprang to his feet. “Well, I better go find the competition and steer them away from this corner, all the better to keep you to myself. My phone number is on the back,” He flapped his hand toward the pamphlet. “Call me anytime. Early acceptance is next month!”

  “I know.” The words came out too soft. He was almost out of sight before I remembered my manners and called after him. “Thank you!”

  “Thank me by telling the rest of them where to put their scholarships!” he called over his vibrant shoulder. Then he was gone.

  I looked from the slick photographs in my hand to the horrific painting in front of me. The sad face, the sickening pink. The words spewed all over the surface. I looked into my own eyes and braced for recogniti
on. For remembrance.

  But I couldn’t find it. So I sat down and waited. Waited to see if it would come.

  “Stace?” Mark’s low voice rose quietly behind me. I turned. He stood at the end of the wall before mine, one shoulder against it, taking his weight. The rest of his long frame was poised, ready to move. But his eyes were wide. His jaw firm. There were lines in his brow. He didn’t know whether to come closer, or leave me alone.

  Warmth throbbed in my chest. Gratitude that he could think of me even when he must have so much good news of his own.

  I gestured for him to join me, then turned back to my paintings.

  I was still sitting at the bench. I’d been there all night.

  Sometimes I answered questions. Sometimes I let people talk around me, not realizing I was there. It was fine. I’d been inside myself. Watching what was going on from the outside. And it was almost over. There were still one or two people wandering around, but I could tell it was getting late.

  As Mark settled next to me his arm slid around my waist. I smiled.

  “How did it go?”

  Mark’s eyes sparkled. “I have choices.”

  “Congratulations!” I put my arms around his waist and squeezed.

  “Ditto.” He squeezed me back. Then his face turned grim. “Dad won’t like it.”

  I sighed and sat up. “No, he won’t.” We were both silent. Then I picked up his hand and squeezed it between mine. “But we can handle him.”

  Mark nodded, still staring into the half-distance.

  A minute later he blinked and turned to look at me, smiling. “How about you?”

  I thought about it for a second. Then I told him.

  I’d spent most of the night staring at my painting, not really seeing it. Instead of studying brush strokes, or intentions, I examined my life.

  Things were about to change. I could feel it. I hoped they would change for the better. But there were so many pains to work through, so many fears to overcome, sometimes it seemed impossible.

  The pamphlet Jeremy gave me, and the hope it represented, was warm and damp in my sweaty hand. I was afraid to let it go. Afraid to lose it. So it stayed with me, waiting the night out. It wasn’t until an hour earlier I’d realized I felt afraid because I still had holes. Even with Mark loving me. Even with an art school dean asking me to choose their scholarship.

  But twenty minutes ago, I realized something else: As long as I kept looking for answers, kept looking for real love, then there would always be a chance my holes would get filled up.

  They would only become inevitable when I stopped believing they could be filled. Because that’s when I’d sit back and let life pile on the crap.

  As long as I had hope, the good things would stay good.

  So, no, I’d never be a kick-ass movie heroine. I’d never be the star of my own story.

  But I was real. And loveable.

  And I would never have believed that back when this story started.

  For more content from the world of Breakable visit: www.aimeelsalter.com

  Or to find the author:

  www.twitter.com/AimeeLSalter

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  IT TAKES A VILLAGE…

  This book is a work of fiction. But if there is one part of the journey Stacy and I share, it is that we entered our twenties with an awareness of the holes inside; the wounds (self-inflicted, or otherwise) that never completely heal.

  I am unable to give enough of myself, my work, or my life to adequately say thank you, Jesus, for moving in to fill those gaps and heal my wounds. Your work in my heart is nothing short of miraculous. I hope you find some measure of delight in what I have delivered here.

  While it only takes one author to write a book, it takes a village to cover the housekeeping, childcare, financial management, and everything else while they do it. My village is named “Alan” and he’s a renaissance man: corporate businessman, hobby farmer, sometimes house-husband, Fun Dad, and the rock of my world. Thank you, darling. You have superior husbanding skills.

  I also have to ask my parents, Ernie and Ricki, to take a bow. I was a creative, irresponsible, irrepressible child who grew up in a home that, no matter what, always included the words "I love you." Thank you for believing I'm capable of something special. And thank you, thank you, thank you for being nothing like Stacy's parents!

  Heather, you are what a sister should be – in the most hilarious way possible. Thank you for always loving me, for being excited with me, for always believing I can do it. And for understanding why sentences like "You forgotta open the door. The door. The door..." are funny. If I ever get invited to a red carpet, I promise you'll be my plus-one. (We'll go incognito).

  To the most important redhead in my life, thank you for sharing me when you didn't get a choice. I hope one day you'll believe in yourself as much as I believe in you. Never question that God will be the one to fuel your dreams and bring them to life. (But if Marvel calls, tell them your publisher is named "Mum" and she can make your life miserable, so they're out of luck).

  To Nyria Ratana and Raewyn Hewitt, my honorary sisters and the founding members of the world’s best writer’s group: There are three couches and a warm fire in heaven where you will be rewarded for your endless support, and Jesus will join us in the next movie giggle-fest. (He already knows everyone's pin numbers, so we'll make him responsible for the McDonald's run).

  Kelly Geister, thank you for that incredible cover. You're the most talented person I know. And you have the best smile. Thank you for never needing an apology, always laughing at my jokes, that mug, and for understanding why inappropriate sketches have value. A piece of me is always with you, friend.

  Without my former agent Brittany Howard, and author Cora Carmack, I honestly doubt Breakable would be a book. You entered my life at a time when I wondered if I needed to give up on this writing jag. So I guess it’s your fault I didn’t. Thank you. Whether the rest of the world thanks you remains to be seen.

  To my "editor", author Vanitha Sankaran, thank you for never saying no, and for offering wise advice on both fiction, and the world of writers who create it. I promise to always pronounce your name correctly and to punch anyone else who doesn’t.

  Thank you, authors Melody Valadez, Mary Elizabeth Summer, Sharon Johnston, Mikaela Gray, Cally Jackson; and reader-extraordinaires Ana McCarron and Emily Heisler (AKA: The Amazing Conversationalist) for your time, your friendship, and believing in me and my book. You’re a gift.

  Thank you, author J.R. Lankford and all the writers at NovelPro (one of the world's best critique groups) for giving so much time to an overly enthusiastic novice, and effectively teaching me how to write.

  Thank you, authors Katja Millay, Cora Carmack, Tammara Webber, Julie Anne Long, Julia Quinn, Sarah MacLean, and John Green for writing completely different stuff than I do and creating worlds for me to escape to when I’m convinced my own worlds are a mess.

  Finally, to you, dear reader. I've dreamed of meeting you for years. Please join me on www.facebook.com/AimeeLSalter, or tweet @AimeeLSalter so we can chat. Thank you for taking Stacy’s journey with me. Seriously. Without you, there's no point in thanking the rest of them.

  And because I mean that, stop by the “For Readers” link on www.aimeelsalter.com – you can choose what I write next!