Three days after the battle, my ribs had healed enough that I could breathe without wincing. The leg wound was pink scar tissue that would fade completely within a week. Accelerated healing had its perks.
I stood in my makeshift studio—really just my parents' garage with better lighting—staring at a blank canvas. For the first time in years, I had no idea what to paint.
Before, my art had been fueled by pain. By heartbreak and longing and the ache of missing something I could never have. But now? Now I was happy. Content. And apparently, contentment made me creatively constipated.
"You're glaring at that canvas like it personally offended you," Skyler said from the doorway.
I jumped. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to watch you pick up a brush four times and put
