Free Promise by Dani Wyatt Page B

didn’t you come talk to me tonight?
    ME: Sorry, just a busy night. Tired.
    JEREMY: Hmm. Too bad. Maybe I’ll be tired next time you need me. Maybe I have something to tell you about Jordan, but you’re obviously not grateful for my help.
    ME: What? What about him? Tell me, please . . .
    JEREMY: Maybe tomorrow. I’m tired.
    Just the mention of Jordan’s name and I’m wide awake. I’m wired like I’ve been chugging espresso.
    Jeremy’s not answering any more texts.
    How could he do that?
    He knows saying anything about Jordan will have me hysterical.
    Why does he do that?
    He’s been there for me for so many years. He’s trying to help, but he gets so touchy sometimes. He helped me get my job at Windfield, looked after me all those years after the fire. And, all the ones before.
    After the other thing too. The thing I don’t talk about. Ever.
    I shake my head; this is too much. I’ve learned the past is no place to visit, and you definitely don’t want to live there.
    I make my way to the bathroom. The girl in the mirror has dark circles under her eyes, but there is a sheen of white glitter still on her face from the club. I bend over the sink and try to wash the last of the Promised Angel off my cheeks and nose.
    I peel off my jeans and t-shirt, throw on my robe and flop down on my bed. I stare at the walls, at the hundreds of paintings. Some are so small, little three-inch by four-inch canvases. Others are a good three and four feet across.
    All of them are on fire.
    I close my eyes, but I can’t stop wondering why Jeremy does that to me.
    Why would he hit me in the most vulnerable place I’ve got? Just because I didn’t come and talk to him at the club? I wish he would stop coming there.
    Jordan. I can see his face.
    Sleep is impossible.
    I bounce up off the bed and throw my phone as hard as I can against the two, yellow pillows leaning against the wall.
    I flip off the lamp on my nightstand, turning the room completely dark. I tiptoe the few steps to the center of my room, feeling my way up the cord until I click on the super spotlight I have clipped to the top of the easel.
    I look at the canvas leaning, half finished. This one is a river. Not a soft, light blue river with happy fish somewhere under the ripples. Nope, my river is red. The rest of the canvas is streaks of black and orange and yellow, the sky not day or night. It’s just blazing. And screaming.
    The colors are what I see, not what anyone else would see. The paint is thick, textured with layers upon layers adding depth. It makes you want to look deeper to see what is under the bold strokes.
    Behind the red river, past the overturned rowboat leveled against the bank, he’s there.
    He’s always there.
    As much as I try to leave him out, he always manages to find his way into the brush strokes and onto the canvas. His face is black, impossible to see.
    I still don’t know who he is. This stranger that I paint. This mystery man that I can’t forget.
    It’s always the same. He’s always here. And for some reason, he feels closer than ever.

Beckett
    Dad is sitting in his wheelchair, lips set tight and he looks at me with the scowl of a defiant teenager.
    “So that’s it. There are no other options, so don’t give me any shit.” I’m leaning on the window sill. I’m too pissed to actually put my ass in a chair.
    The 3 AM call from Bruce had done nothing to change my opinion that coming home to Cleveland, thinking I may be able to change something between us, might have been a huge fucking mistake. Bruce explained to me that I have two choices.
    Either Dad can go into the lockdown wing here at Windfield, or I find him a new place to stay.
    Either way, from here on out, he’s on my dime.
    Sending him to the lockdown unit is not an option. He’d either kill himself or every other person in there.
    Besides, I wouldn’t want to. We’ve got our history, but I wouldn’t do that to him. Bruce had walked me through that unit, and it was