“Nothing,” I said, which was the truth. There was absolutely nothing churning in my mind. Nothing I felt inspired to create.
“Why don’t you meditate or something? Go surfing. Try to find some way to channel your inner muse?”
“Muse?” I barked out a laugh. “You know I don’t believe in muses.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just…” I could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re running out of time. So, either do whatever you need to do to make it happen, or we’re going to have to pull out of the exhibit. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
What more was there to say? I didn’t want to pull out of the exhibit and admit complete and total failure. But if I didn’t start painting soon, that was exactly what would happen.
My chest tightened, and it felt as if the walls of my studio were caving in on me. I felt trapped. Suffocated. Crushed by the weight of expectations.
“Look—” His voice softened. “Maybe you should consider it. Maybe this is just too much to expect so soon after your accident.”
I gnashed my teeth. “It’s been five months. But who’s counting.”
“I know,” he sighed. “It’s been a long road, but you’re nearly at the end of it. Don’t give up now.”
“I’m not.” I tightened my grip on the phone, even as I was losing touch with reality. “I just feel so uninspired.”
Uninspired and out of control. I’d never felt more out of touch with my art, with myself. Which was why I’d finally agreed to take an adjunct teaching position with the Los Angeles College of Art and Design.
Theo had thought it would be a good way to stay connected to art and earn some money. But it only served as a painful reminder of what I couldn’t do. What I’d been able to do up until the accident.
I rubbed a hand over my face, wondering if I’d ever regain full range of motion in my wrist. The doctor said it was possible but highly unlikely. Which meant…I would never paint the same again.
I hadn’t really admitted the truth of that to myself until recently. Until I’d actually tried picking up a brush or a pencil to draw again. My style was different, and precision work… I shook my head. Well, I could forget about it.
Finally, Theo said, “Why don’t you call Martine? She always seems to inspire you.”
I paced the concrete, enjoying the sensation of the cool, hard material beneath my bare feet. Martine had modeled for me many times in the past. And, yes, sometimes the modeling led to sex. When clothes were removed, lines blurred; it wasn’t uncommon. But I was always very clear about what women were getting into with me. I didn’t do relationships. I didn’t have the energy or desire to fully devote myself to anything but art. Or at least, I hadn’t before. Now, I didn’t even have the energy for art.
“Or Akira,” he suggested. She was beautiful, but I just wasn’t feeling it.
“I’m not in the mood for Martine or Akira,” I sighed.
“Then open up your little black book and call someone else.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t have a little black book. That’s so nineties.”
“I don’t know what more to do,” he said, ignoring my comment. “Do you—” He hesitated, his voice quiet. “Do you want to talk to someone—a therapist?”
I used my free hand to massage my temple. We’d already discussed this. “No. I’ll get it together. I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay. Just remember, you don’t have to do this alone.”
I chuckled darkly. “Are you going to paint for me?”
My twin was talented at many things, but painting wasn’t one of them. It was actually one of the few things he wasn’t good at. Which was part of the reason I loved it, clung to it.
He was silent for a moment. “You know what I mean, Xander.” I could hear the disappointment in his tone. “And, no. I’m not going to paint for you. I’m the left brain, you’re the right, remember?”
Theo was organized, rational, caring. I was… I wasn’t sure what I was. At least, not without my art. I’d always defined myself in terms of it, feeling like it distinguished me from Theo. Set me apart, when he had everything else.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
I heard him talking to someone in the background before he returned his attention to me. “I have to go. Keep me updated.”
I nodded before remembering he couldn’t see me.
“Oh and, Xander?” he asked before I could disconnect the call.
“Yeah?”
“Try taking a shower, shaving, getting dressed. It will do wonders for your outlook.”
I glanced down at my shirt, wondering how he knew I was wearing my clothes from yesterday and I hadn’t shaved in a week. But I guessed that was part of being a twin. Before I could open my mouth to protest, he’d already said goodbye and ended the call. I sank down on the couch with a sigh.
Theo hadn’t said anything I didn’t already know. But hearing it from him made it harder to ignore the truth. Before the accident, my popularity as an artist had been on the rise. Now, everyone was waiting to see what I’d do next. Not because I was Alexander Kline, but because I was a curiosity—the famous artist who’d suffered an injury that crippled his ability to draw.
Could I back out of the exhibit? Sure.
But it would mean the end of my career, my dreams. And not just because it would tank my reputation with galleries. But because it would be admitting failure to myself. It would be accepting defeat.
I scrolled through my list of contacts, trying to see if the names inspired me in any way. Martine, Akira, Sasha, Else—all gorgeous. Some I’d slept with, some I hadn’t. None of whom I wanted to call. Our relationships had been superficial—hot, but shallow. I saw that now. Besides, I didn’t think any of them would be interested in a has-been.
I stared at the blank canvas a moment longer before deciding to take Theo’s advice. I’d start by cleaning my apartment and studio.
By the time I’d finished, I had to admit I did feel a little better. Or at least a little less pathetic. After that, I took a shower. And then, I checked my emails and organized my supplies. And after all that, I was out of excuses and decided that maybe I really should try painting something.
But again, when I stood before the canvas, my mind went blank. I was empty, void.
I imagined this was what not being able to get it up felt like. It was shitty and embarrassing and… I dug my fingers into my hair, letting out a frustrated groan. What the hell was wrong with me?
This had never happened before. Sure, my creativity would ebb and flow, but it had never stopped. It had never dried up like a tube of paint left in the hot sun too long.
I told myself I just had to draw one thing. One simple piece. Nothing major. Just a small canvas with a little bit of paint. It didn’t even have to look like an orange or a human hand or whatever. I mixed the paint, stood in front of the easel, and lifted my hand. The angle of my wrist was all wrong, but I tried to ignore it. There was nothing to be done. Despite months of physical therapy, my wrist simply didn’t have the range of motion I needed. It never would.
I took a deep breath, trying to relax myself. But every time I got close to the canvas, it was as if there were an invisible force field that kept me from actually touching it with the brush. I told my hand to paint, sent the message from my brain, yet…nothing happened. I peered down at my arm, but it looked like someone else’s. It was unfamiliar, weak, and uninspiring.
It was useless.
I flung the brush across the room before sweeping the canvas and paint from the easel. A glass filled with water went flying, shattering against the concrete floor, much like my wrist had. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath coming in pants as I sank to the floor. I felt as broken and irreparable as that glass.
I had six weeks until the exhibit, and they were expecting to see over twenty paintings. Twenty original Alexander Kline paintings. Twenty. And I currently had less than half that amount.
What the fuck am I going to do?
“You ready for this?” Hunter asked as we walked up the path to the front door.
Was I ready? Hmm. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to tell my parents I’d dropped out of one of the top premed programs in the nation to pursue a career in art. I could already imagine the disappointment, the guilt. Probably because I’d been struggling with it for the past few weeks.
At first, I’d told myself I was just going to apply to see if I could even get in.
Then, when I got in, I figured I’d accept so I wouldn’t lose my spot.
And it snowballed from there with each new lie I told myself, until I was missing my biology lab to attend life drawing, skipping organic chemistry to practice sculpture. Now, it was a few weeks into the semester, and I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up the act. The add/drop period would end soon and, with it, my chances of dropping my premed classes without penalty, without a permanent stain on my transcript.
Still, I’d do anything to continue my education at Los Angeles College of Art and Design. The classes were everything I’d dreamed of, and I’d never been happier. While also simultaneously being miserable. Because I’d promised myself I’d tell my family by now, but every time I tried… Well, I found some excuse.
“Kate?” Hunter turned to me as we reached the porch, and I realized he was looking at me with concern. He didn’t know about my double life; he was merely asking if I was ready to endure the torture that was family dinner with our parents.
I glanced up at him, telling myself I needed to get my head in gear. I just needed to rip off the Band-Aid and tell my parents the truth. But I didn’t know if I could. Hunter had his MBA and was the CEO of a successful company he’d started. And our older sister, Lily, was not only married to a man my parents adored, but also a divorce attorney to the stars. It was… There was a lot of pressure. A lot of expectation to live up to the family name.
Hunter placed a hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to the present. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m just tired. I had a busy day.”
It was at least partially true. But more than that, I was freaking out. I was sweating, and I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to be the brave, assertive woman I was in so many other aspects of my life. But when it came to my dad, I always felt like that excited seven-year-old rushing in to show him my artwork, only to have it dismissed.
Hunter rang the doorbell. “Come on.” He squeezed me before releasing me. “Let’s get this over with.”
A figure walked toward the large glass door. As she neared, I recognized the maid’s uniform but not the woman wearing it. Must be new.
“Miss Katherine.” She smiled at me. “And Mr. Hunter?” Her accent was heavy. French, if I had to guess.
“Yes,” Hunter said.
“Your parents are expecting you. Dinner is almost ready.” She stepped back, inviting us into the house that felt more like a museum of modern art than a home.
“Darlings.” Mother’s voice reached me from the top of the stairs. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I glanced up to see her gliding down the stairs, cocktail in hand. Her hair, her makeup, her outfit were perfect. If you’d looked up Stepford Wife in the dictionary, you’d see her picture listed next to it. She’d undergone so many procedures to enhance her appearance, I’d lost count.
When she reached the foot of the stairs, she paused a moment as if she were posing for a picture. I bit my cheek, knowing better than to say anything. She never relaxed, never let her guard down. She was always performing, and I found it exhausting.
“Hunter.” She exchanged air kisses with him. “You look well.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“And Katherine.” She turned her assessing gaze on me, scanning for faults, no doubt. “You look… Well, that’s an interesting choice of outfit.”
I tried my best not to roll my eyes. I was wearing a dress, a rather boring one, in my opinion. I’d tried to pick one of the least offensive ones in my closet, just so I wouldn’t have to hear about it. And yet…my mother still found a way to remark on it. I could only imagine how she’d react if she knew I had a nose piercing. I put in a spacer every time I saw her or Hunter just so I wouldn’t have to deal with comments.
“And pink hair?”
“Don’t worry,” I sighed. “It will wash out in a few days.”
“Come,” she said, ushering us toward the dining room. “We can discuss fashion choices over dinner and set up a date to go shopping together.”
“Where’s Dad?” I asked when we found the dining room empty. I wanted to tell them at the same time. And I wanted to do it soon—before I could lose my nerve.
“I’m sure he’ll be along soon.” She smiled, but it was forced. Just like our attendance at these mandatory family dinners.
She took a swig of her drink, her eyes focused on the backyard. I followed her gaze to where Santos the gardener was trimming a hedge. Her eyes lingered on him for a bit longer than was appropriate, and I startled when someone cleared their throat.
“Where’s dinner?” Dad strode into the room without glancing up from his phone.
“Nice of you to join us, dear.” Though Mom’s voice was sweet, it was almost overly so. And it was a thin veneer over the anger lurking just beneath the surface.
“I wouldn’t dream of missing family dinner,” he said, though it all felt like lines in a play. Everyone was playing their part, and it was a role none of us enjoyed. Lily was only exempt because she was working on a big case.
“Katherine,” Mom said as the salad was served. “We could meet for lunch near campus and do some shopping for the gala.”
I swallowed, psyching myself up to tell her it wasn’t necessary. Not only was I not interested in a shopping excursion, but my campus wasn’t where she thought it was. But then Dad’s phone rang, and Mom turned to glare at him.
“Daniel,” Mom chided.
He ignored her and answered the call, conducting his business in a terse voice before hanging up a minute later. Mom stared at him for a moment, and he didn’t flinch. Finally, she turned to Hunter with a smile, pretending as if it had never happened.
“What about you, Hunter? Is your tux ready? Do you have a date?” she asked, and I knew the moment had passed. My courage—and my chance to come clean—was gone.
“I’m all set,” Hunter said.
“Fantastic, darling.” I barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes. If only my parents would let me off that easy.
“Bryan Aldridge asked Katherine to be his date, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. They’re going to look gorgeous together. And his father is on the board of St. Elizabeth’s.” She smiled, insinuating that I use the relationship to further my career. My medical career.
I clutched my napkin beneath the table as I tried to keep my expression neutral. This was it—I just needed to tell them. I needed to tell them I wasn’t going with Bryan to the gala, and I wasn’t going to med school.
I could do this. I had to do this. The add/drop deadline was looming, and my father was too well connected, had too many friends on the college board, to keep this secret for long.
“Actually, um.” I cleared my throat. “I’m not going.”
“Of course, you’re going,” Mom said as if I was joking. As if my attendance was a given. “You will be there, and you will go as Bryan’s date.”
“No.” I shook my head, and even Hunter seemed surprised by my little act of rebellion.
“Daniel, please put away your phone.” She glared at Dad who had started texting almost as soon as he’d ended the call. “And talk some sense into your daughter.”
Dad set his phone aside with a sigh. “This is not up for negotiation. And it’s a great opportunity for you to network. A number of the best doctors in the city will be there. You can start talking to them about summer internships.”
It was the perfect segue into my new major, my new career path. The perfect op
portunity to tell them it wasn’t necessary. None of it was necessary because I wasn’t going to med school, and I wasn’t going to be a doctor.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mom, Dad, but…I already have a date,” I blurted in a panic.
I’d choked. If that was how they reacted to my refusal to attend a stupid gala, I could only imagine the uproar if they knew I’d ditched premed to attend art school. And I couldn’t do it. I told myself the time wasn’t right, but I knew that was a lie. I was terrified.
“Who is it?” Mom asked. “Is it—”
“You haven’t met him,” I said, cutting her off. “But we will be there.” I nodded. “I will be there.”
Hunter narrowed his eyes at me, likely trying to figure out what the hell was going on with me. I knew he was also likely trying to figure out the identity of my date so he could run a background check and then put the fear of god into him.
“At least tell us about him,” Mother said as the next course was served. “Is he your age? Older? A fellow student or—”
“I met him at school,” I answered quickly, hoping to move on to a new subject.
“What do his parents do for a living?”
“You know, I didn’t think to ask.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting him,” she said. She seemed to miss the sarcasm underlying my tone, finally turning back to Hunter. “How’s the new house coming?”
I tried to force myself to eat, but I mostly just pushed my food around the plate. Despite the fact that it was my favorite—salmon—I’d completely lost my appetite.
Hunter smiled. “It’s good. I hired a decorator, and she’s got some great ideas.”
“That’s wonderful, dear.” She patted his hand. “You know, I’d be happy to look over samples and give you my opinion.”
“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. My designer is—” He cleared his throat, covering his mouth with his napkin. “Very capable.”
Okay. He was totally acting weird—cagey and like he actually gave a shit about the interior decorating of his home. The fact that he’d even purchased a house was a shock, but now he was having it decorated and he seemed to be enjoying himself. Huh.
Perspective (Love in LA Book 1) Page 2