CHAPTER 8: Studio
750 Words
Jones woke to the dull throb of his heartbeat pounding behind his eyes. The room spun faintly as sunlight leaked through the blinds. His mouth was dry, the bitter taste of alcohol clinging to his tongue.
He groaned, shifted — and froze.
Someone was beside him.
Marie.
Her dark hair fanned across the pillow, soft against the sheets. For a long moment, he just stared, trying to remember how she’d ended up there.
“Marie?” he rasped.
She stirred, eyes fluttering open. “You’re awake,” she said softly, a trace of irritation beneath her calm tone.
Jones rubbed his temples. “What… are you doing here?”
“I came to your house last night,” she said. “You weren’t home. I was knocking when Max showed up — half-dragging you out of his car.”
He blinked. “Max?”
She nodded. “Yeah. You two went to a party. You got completely wasted. He brought you home.”
Jones frowned, flashes of the night flickering — music, laughter, flashing lights, Max handing him another drink… then nothing.
He exhaled. “I don’t remember any of it.”
“I’m not surprised,” Marie said, crossing her arms. “You could barely stand. Max helped you inside, then left. I stayed because I was worried.”
Jones met her eyes, guilt flickering through his exhaustion. “I’m sorry, Marie. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”
She sighed. “Just… take care of yourself, okay? I don’t want to get another call or find you like that again.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I owe you — and Max.”
Her expression softened. “You do. Now go wash up. You smell like whiskey and bad decisions.”
He cracked a weak grin. “Fair enough. Coffee?”
“Make it strong.”
Steam curled from the bathroom as Jones stepped out, towel draped over his shoulders, the small rose tattoo on his chest half-hidden. Cold water had chased away most of the hangover, leaving behind a dull heaviness and a quiet guilt.
In the kitchen, the smell of frying eggs and coffee filled the air. The rhythmic clatter of utensils steadied him. By the time the toast popped, he almost felt human again.
Marie appeared in the hallway, hair damp, wearing one of his oversized shirts. The hem brushed her thighs — she looked amused and unapologetic.
Jones turned, spatula in hand. “Really? You’re raiding my closet now?”
She tugged at the loose sleeves, laughing. “Relax. It’s temporary. My outfit’s in my bag — saving it for later.”
She wandered into the parlor, pacing in thought.
“You okay? Looking for something?” Jones asked, brow raised.
“No, not at all. I’m not searching for anything… and I’m fine.” She paused, then sighed. “No. I’m not fine.”
Jones frowned, surprised by her honesty.
“You got plans today?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Job hunting.”
Marie was quiet for a beat, then said, “Skip it. You’ve got plenty of time for that. Come with me to my uncle’s art studio.”
Jones slid a plate toward her. “Ah, the famous uncle with the fancy studio. You’ve only mentioned him a hundred times.”
She smirked. “That’s because he’s amazing. You’ll love it there.”
Breakfast passed with easy laughter — the kind that felt like sunlight breaking through the haze of the night before.
A few hours later, they were in Marie’s black BMW, windows down, city air rushing in as music played softly. She sat beside him, now in a cream blouse and jeans, sketchbook balanced on her lap.
Jones glanced at her. “So, what’s the plan at the studio? You painting, or showing off your uncle’s masterpieces?”
“Maybe both,” she said, smiling. “He’s working on a new exhibition and promised to let me paint beside him. You can come watch — or, you know, not get drunk this time.”
Jones chuckled. “Noted.”
The car turned onto a wide street lined with trees and galleries. Ahead, the company name came into view — Kairos Art Space.
Marie’s eyes brightened instantly. “We’re here.”
Jones parked, stepped out, and watched her the way her excitement softened everything around her.
Maybe, he thought, this wasn’t such a bad way to start over.
- Writer
