I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. “I destroyed the paintings. All that were in my possession, anyway. I burned them in the fire pit outside. There’s nothing left.”

“Why would you do that?” His voice is shocked, saddened, heartbreaking to hear.

I put my head in my heads, blocking him out. He wraps his fingers around my forearm and pries my hands away. “What happened?” he asks.

My face crumples. Why doesn’t he understand?

“What happened?” I repeat, shame and fear and anger competing in my heart. “He died. I was ruined. I lost the two things I loved most in the world, that’s what happened!” I pull away from him and stumble to the middle of the room, gesturing wildly around me. “How could I look at what I used to be, what I used to have? I couldn’t! The paintings would hang on the walls in here and they would mock me, they would make fun of me for not becoming what I could have been. Haven’t you ever lost something, Josh?”

He stares at me, not saying a word.

“Well, I did,” I go on, my heart racing, “I lost them in the worst way.”

“So you shut down,” he says, almost to himself.

I frown at him, my hackles rising. “It’s called self-preservation.”

He smiles sadly. “It’s not a way to live, Gemma. Everyone is going to lose something, someone, at some point in their lives.”

“You don’t understand,” I snap, glaring. He thinks he has me all figured out. He doesn’t know me, he wasn’t there, he didn’t have to go through it. “You have everything.”

He raises his brows and gives his head a little shake. “I don’t have everything,” he says quietly. “I barely have you.”

We stare at each other, the dust still hanging in the air. I try and compose myself, breathing in and out, but my breath keeps escaping me.

I need to escape.

I walk past him but he grabs me and hauls me to him. “Don’t run,” he says, holding me by the shoulders in place. “Not from this, not from me.”

“Let me go,” I say.

“You could make me,” he says, his grip not loosening. “I know you can.”

He’s right. But the truth is, I think his arms are the only thing keeping me upright.

“It’s done,” I say, my chin dipped low, staring at the floor between us. “It happened. I can’t get those paintings back. I was a different person before and I’m a different person now.”

The child is grown, the dream is gone. “Comfortably Numb” plays in my head and I close my eyes.

“But would you do it again?” he asks. His voice sounds larger than life in here. “Or will you destroy something before you have a chance to lose it?”

He’s in my head, he’s in my heart. How did he get in here? There’s an edge to his words, like he knows, like he knows me.

I’m numb, I’m numb, I’m numb.

“Gemma,” he says in a hushed tone and plants a hard kiss on the top of my head. He wraps his arms around me. “I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to lose your father. If I lost my sister, I don’t know what I’d do. And if I lost the ability to create, the one thing that makes me happy, that would almost be worse. But . . . you have to understand . . . or maybe not . . . but your father won’t stop being your father. And you won’t stop being an artist. You just have to let it out. Don’t think that because time has passed you’re not allowed to grieve anymore.” He pulls back and cups my face in his large hands, peering down at me. “And don’t think that because you can’t paint the way you used to, in the way you deemed as good—the only way—that you can’t create. You’re a different person now, as you say. Your art will be different. You don’t have to stick to the only path you thought possible. There are others. Believe me.”

I stare up at him, letting his words sink in. They’re starting to stick.

Maybe I’m thawing.

I rub my lips together. “What did you want to get from here?”

His brows knit together but he nods, knowing I’m done talking about it. He doesn’t have to know that he’s gotten to me. He pulls away and looks around him. “Well, I was hoping to pick up something other than my watercolor pencils.”

I tap my fingers to my chin, glad to have something else to think about. I walk over to the shelves and bring out a box full of supplies. My hand is shaking a bit but I decide that’s okay. I’m still a bit shaken up over Josh’s words, at the hope in them, at the way he managed to see inside me.

Will you destroy something before you have a chance to lose it?

I rummage through it and bring out black, green, and yellow oil paints. Their caps seem stuck on but they should be all right. I wave them at him. “How about oils? Only three colors, though.”

“Nah,” he says, coming over. “Too serious.” He puts his hand in and pulls out a box of chunky pastels. “Bingo.”

I eye him curiously. “Pastels? You don’t strike me as a pastel kinda guy.”

“I can’t always be emo, can I?” he says with a wink and I laugh. “These are perfect.”

I shrug. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“You float my boat,” he says seductively, and I know we have to get out of here before the air of respect totally disappears.

We go and pack up Mr. Orange. It’s tougher than normal to say goodbye to my mother and Auntie Jolinda. Actually, it’s never been tough before. I would just give them a wave and tell them I’d call them and maybe see them in a few months, and that would be that. I would leave without a second thought. I would feel no loss.