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I grab my bag, my hands still trembling as I stuff my supplies inside. The rental contract sits abandoned on the table, unsigned. Maybe my instincts were right. Maybe I’m not ready to leave this house. It’s safe.

Dread settles in my stomach like a stone as I head for the door. How long before someone in town sees that article? How long before the parents start asking questions about the art teacher with a criminal reputation?

One day at a time, I whisper to myself, but the words feel as fragile as spun glass.

I pull into the elementary school parking lot, my hands still trembling. The lot’s nearly empty except for a few teacher cars scattered around, their metallic surfaces gleaming under the morning sun. I grab my bag and force myself to walk toward the building instead of peeling out of here like my instincts are screaming at me to do.

Normally walking through the halls brings me comfort, today though, my stomach is threatening to revolt and my palms are clammy. I head straight for the art room, eyes burning with unshed tears I refuse to let fall.

Not here. Not now.

I drop my bag on the desk and the weight of the world drops on me. What am I going to do? No. I can’t think about that. Gaze blurry, throat tight, I begin laying out supplies for today’s lesson with shaking hands. Construction paper, crayons, glue sticks. Simple things for simple minds. Unlike my complicated, fucked-up excuse for a life. How did everything go so wrong?

There’s acid in my veins. A chill walking down my spine, and a vicious voice whispering that perhaps this is what I deserve for leaving everyone behind. The tears that I’ve been trying to hold back slowly slide down my cheeks.

Goddammit. I swipe at them, searching for a place to hide. The door to the supply closet hangs open. I duck inside, trying to steady myself. Counting my breaths. Bracing myself against the shelves lined with plastic paint bottles. My chest feels like it’s cracking open, each breath shorter than the last despite trying to control them. I grasp the metal shelves, knuckles protesting, and force air into my lungs.

A knock echoes from the classroom door.

“Callie?”

My heart rate spikes. No. Brax can’t be here. He can’t witness the complete and utter fucking disaster that I am. I take a ragged breath. “I’ll be right out.” My voice cracks. Shit.

“Are you okay?” Concern laces his words as his footsteps get closer.

Cursing under my breath, I clean my face with my shirt, hating how hot it suddenly is. The walls close in around me. The tears sting, demanding I let them fall, but I force them back. I can’t let Brax see me like this.

He appears in the doorway, taking me in. Trembling shoulders. Panting breaths. My face is probably covered in red splotches.

“What happened?” he demands, features hardening and he looks around, as if looking for whatever hurt me.

“Nothing.”

He squints at me, seeing through my bullshit. “Don’t lie to me, Callie.”

I release a shaky exhale. No. I’m not a liar. I’m not a fake, but what good is that knowledge when the whole world thinks otherwise? This is what Theo wanted. To beat me down. To make me nothing. To destroy me for leaving him. “What happened,” I begin, hating how weak I sound. “Is that I’m a joke. My whole life, my art.” I choke on the words, throat raw from holding back sobs. “It’s worthless. I’m fucking worthless, Brax.”

Something dark flashes across his features. “Don’t you ever say that again.” The vehemence in his voice makes me recoil. “You’re not worthless, Callie. Your art isn’t worthless. Who the hell made you think that?”

Shaking my head, I say, “You don’t understand⁠—”

“Then tell me.” He steps closer, his presence filling the small space. “Help me understand.”

I hesitate, my secrets like broken glass in my throat. I should keep this to myself, bury it deep so no one can know the truth. That I’m weak. But something about the way he’s looking at me like I matter, like I’m worth fighting for, breaks open the dam I’ve built around my pain.

The words gush out of me. I tell him about Theo, about the years of manipulation disguised as love. How he isolated me from my friends, my dreams, myself. How he stole my art and passed it off as his own at that gallery opening while I stood there like an idiot, watching my soul displayed on walls with his name attached. The lawsuit. The articles that painted me as a bitter ex trying to destroy a rising star’s career.

Then I tell him about the text.

The quiet surrounding Brax takes a dangerous edge, like if I step closer, it might cut me. He stares at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire. One wrong move and the world could detonate around us.

“Say something.” My voice trembles like autumn leaves in the wind.

“Is he in town?”

My eyebrows pinch together. “What?”

“Theo. Is he in town?” Each word drops from his lips like a stone, violence flashing in his eyes like lightning.