Page 64 of Into Pitch

“Yes.”

“Because?” She asks, eyes narrowing.

“Because you crave focus and struggle with divided attention. Your nervous system doesn’t get a chance to rest when you are being pulled in multiple directions.” I explain softly.

“And your solution to that was to remove my choices,” she says flatly.

“To remove the noise,” I correct.

I tire of this argument, but if she feels it imperative to have it over and over then I will walk this loop until reality finally settles in.

“You don’t get to decide what is and isn’t noise in my life.”

I don’t reply and her lips press into a firm line. I only lean back in my chair, studying her. She looks smaller in the cabin—less guarded without the city pressing around her—but no less dangerous. If anything, the isolation does what I thought it might and sharpens her edges.

She’s not wilting, but coiling. And that in itself is far more interesting than the debate we are having.

“I bought you something,” I change the subject in hopes we can stay off of it.

“I don’t want your apology gift,” She snarls past the clench of her teeth.

“That’s good, because it’s not an apology.”

“Right,” she deadpans.

I rise and cross to the corner of the room where I left the supplies shortly after arriving. I retrieve them and set them on the table between us. It’s simple things, but all things I know she will like. A canvas that is fresh and stretched tight. A set of paints—quality ones, not the student-grade nonsense she makes do with—whose pigments are rich and deep. And brushes with clean bristles that have been thoughtfully selected.

Her focus drops to them then slowly climbs to me, only to drop right back to the canvas. And I watch in real time as her expression hardens.

“What is this?” She hisses.

“A resource you can use to regulate through creation. You can paint when you’re processing or overwhelmed. Just as you did in the bus, but without all the little side quests along the way.”

“I paint when I choose to, not when I’m cornered.”

“This isn’t a corner, Sadie. Don’t think of it as one. Think of it as a starting line.” I say softly and gesture to the supplies.

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m adaptive.”

“You’re compensating for what you took from me and now you’re trying to replace it with art supplies.” She continues to battle.

“You enjoy painting,” I argue.

“I enjoy autonomy too, but let’s skip that portion of our therapy.” She lashes back. I don’t flinch, I won’t allow it to form, but I feel it.

I study her again, recalibrating mentally. She’s not rejecting the gift itself, but the implication and assumption. I may have miscalculated this all. I do not believe she will quit fighting me on this, and I am all for healthy debate, but we can’t continue to butt heads and make it forward. Not if we are stuck too deep in the trenches.

It’s not catastrophic by any means, but it does require adjustment.

“I could have asked and you would have said no,” I decide to introduce my own insecurity to the equation. Hoping that if she meets me on some human level she might see where I was coming from when doing all of this. That all of it was for her.

“I probably would have, yes. But you just skipped over the part where I get a say.” She huffs out, some of the bristle leaving her shoulders.

“Yes, I did.”

Her eyes search mine, looking for something I’m not sure she’ll ever find. “At least you’re honest.”