Page 38 of Rush

“Why do you even care?” I toss at him. “You still hated me this time yesterday.”

Confusion turns to anger. “I never hated you, Ari. But this isn’t about me. So, don’t try to distract us from the issue. Tell me what you meant by that.”

“I can’t paint anymore, okay!” I push his hand away from my face. Stepping back, I bump into the wall. “I stopped drinking, and now, I can’t paint anymore. Happy?”

“No, I’m not happy.” He leans against the opposite wall, eyes watching me. “Why can’t you paint?”

“Weren’t you just listening?”

“I was listening. I just think it’s bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

The bastard smirks. “There she is. Foulmouthed little Jailbird.”

“Stop calling me that!” I yell, my hands going into my hair and making two fists. “God, you’re so infuriating!”

He laughs this time, and I want to take a fist from my hair and use it to punch him right in his perfect jaw.

“I’m glad my life is a joke to you.”

His humor disappears, replaced with irritation. “Trust me; the last thing I think you are is a joke.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Tell me the real reason you can’t paint.”

“Because the alcohol made me good. I don’t drink anymore; ergo, I can no longer paint.”

“How long have you been painting?”

“Since I was a kid.”

“When did you start drinking?”

“When I was a kid.”

He frowns. The look in his eyes makes me want to shrink in on myself. Disgust laced with consternation.

“I was fifteen,” I add quietly, my eyes lowering.

It takes a good minute before he speaks again. I wonder for a time if he’s actually going to say nothing and just walk out of my apartment. I wouldn’t blame him.

“But I’m guessing you started painting before you were fifteen. A gift like that, it’s always in you, right?”

“Yes…” I say, slowly looking back up at him. “I’ve always painted. Since I was small.”

“Then, you still can. You just think you can’t. But your talent is still in there.”

“I don’t know…”

“Do me a favor. Stop punishing yourself with the blank canvas out there.”

“I am not—”

He holds a hand up, stopping me, giving me a look.

Am I punishing myself? I thought it was to try to inspire myself. But wouldn’t I have the paintings where I could see them to remind me of what I could do…what I might be able to do again? Not the blank canvas.