my throat. In the entirety of my suffering, I don’t think my sullen attitude has ever broken him. Unfortunately for Bram and everyone else in my life, the only satisfaction I get these days tends to stem from sarcastic verbal judo. His breakthrough serves solely as an opening for the start of this match. “If you keep acting like a mother hen, I might consider it.”
“Get over yourself, you cranky fuck,” he says through a soft, mostly annoyed chuckle. “I’m just trying to help you out.”
Help. Fuck, I hate that word.
“That’s the thing, Bram.” I spit out my frustration. “I don’t need your goddamn help.”
It’s a lie, we both know it, but that does nothing to soften the conviction with which I wish it weren’t.
He sighs but, smartly, keeps his mouth shut. We’ve had our fair share of heated spats over the past year, and experience tells him there’s only enough room for one antagonist in this kitchen. As the owner in residence, I call dibs.
“So, all issues with breakfast aside, are you planning on going into your studio this week?”
What’s the point? It’s not like I’m going to paint…
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Why?”
“Lucy’s been fielding quite a few calls from interested buyers, and I’m sure she’d love to discuss them with you.”
She’d love to discuss them with me? Pretty sure he means my assistant would love to stop answering so many goddamn calls. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s even answering the phones without me there. Lucy Miller is about as prone to doing her job as my eyes are to see my fucking feet.
Before the accident, I was in the studio every day. Now, it’s all I can do to force myself to go once a month. Clearly, going weeks on end without checking in on her has only impugned what little work ethic she had.
Ironically, ever since the world found out I would never paint again, the value of my paintings has shot up exponentially. Morbid fascination at its finest.
Last month, one of my paintings sold at auction for two million dollars.
Created when I was twenty-one, it was one of the first paintings I ever leaned into with my entire soul. Full of movement and passion, the young boy and his bubbles embodied everything I felt at the time. I sold it to what I’d believed to be an impassioned buyer. Turns out, the only impassioned fool was me.
The thought of someone selling one of my purest creations for monetary gain left a sour fucking taste in my mouth, and as a result, I’m starting to despise every single potential buyer. Do they love art? Or do they see an investment piece that, when turned over, will buy them a house they don’t need or a fucking Lamborghini they won’t drive?
Art is meant to affect your heart, your mind, your goddamn soul.
Not serve as a conduit for a bigger bank account.
Bunch of greedy fucking bastards…
“Who’s interested?”
“Well…” Bram clears his throat. “Lyle Jacobs.”
An NBA basketball player who wouldn’t know real art from his asshole.
“Carly May.”
A reality TV star who probably thinks Mona Lisa is a pop singer.
“Jeff Simmons.”
A pretentious billionaire who has more money than any one human being needs. He’s flashy and ostentatious, and he wouldn’t know true art if it smacked him across the fucking face.
“Not interested.”
“They’re offering a lot of money—”
“It’s not about the money,” I mutter. “They and their money can go fuck themselves.”
Bram sighs and laughs at the same time. “God, Ans, could you be any more of a dick?”
“If I tried hard enough?” I shrug. “Probably.”
Thankfully, Bram gets wise and drops the subject altogether.
“Are you taking me to my appointment today?” I ask as I carefully pour myself a cup of coffee.
Another pointless appointment where the doctor confirms what I already know all too fucking well. Yeah, Doc, I get it. I can’t see.
“Yeah.”
“You do realize it’s not until four, right?”
“Also yes,” he says, stepping into my body, grabbing my hand, and directing the pot of coffee back to the machine I would have missed on my own. “But don’t worry, I have to leave to meet my band for a few hours, and then I’ll be back to get you around three.”
“When are you going on tour again, Mom?” I tease halfheartedly. It’s either that or cry. Fucking hell, I hate what my life has become.