chapter 2
1433 Words
Lola arrived at the gallery five minutes early, partly because she hated being late, and mostly because she wanted time to breathe before facing Tristan again.
But of course, he was already there.
He stood near their assigned canvas, camera bag at his feet, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn denim jacket. He was staring at the blank surface like it owed him an apology. Or maybe he was waiting for it to whisper the first move.
She hated that he looked so comfortable. Like walking back into her world hadn’t rattled him. Like he hadn’t ghosted her five years ago.
“Morning,” he said, turning.
Lola didn’t slow her pace. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Be nice. It’s confusing.”
He smiled, a little too easily. “Noted.”
She dropped her bag by the supply table and yanked open a drawer of brushes more forcefully than necessary. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Tristan didn’t reply. He stepped back to the canvas, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Silence settled between them—thick, unspoken, and uncomfortable. The gallery was quiet except for the hum of overhead lights and the soft click of Maya’s Spotify playlist playing from the front desk.
Finally, he said, “For what it’s worth, I didn’t know it would be you.”
“Would it have changed anything?”
He paused. “Yeah. It would’ve.”
Lola turned to face him. “How?”
“I would’ve prepared.”
Her laugh was bitter. “What, like a crash course in ‘How Not to Re-Traumatize Your Ex While Sharing a Canvas’?”
“I deserved that.”
“Damn right you did.”
They stared at each other across the space, their history stretching between them like the very canvas they were meant to fill—blank, waiting, heavy with potential and pain.
The moment was shattered as Jules swept into the gallery, shimmering in gold and green sequins and carrying a clipboard like a wand.
“Artists!” Jules sang. “Good morning, chaos goblins. Checking in on our most...dramatic pairing.”
Lola didn’t even try to fake a smile. “We’ve spoken. Nobody died. Yet.”
“Growth!” Jules beamed. “Now remember, your job is to create something that tells a shared story. One piece. One voice. Preferably not a crime scene.”
Tristan quirked a brow. “Any medium restrictions?”
“Nope,” Jules said, spinning on a heel. “Go wild. Just make it powerful. And for the love of Warhol, make it honest.”
Then they were gone, leaving glitter in their wake and tension in the air.
Lola faced the canvas. “Any ideas?”
Tristan moved beside her. “Split composition. We each paint from our side and meet in the middle.”
She arched a brow. “A metaphor so on-the-nose it could break it.”
He shrugged. “It's a start.”
She didn’t argue. Because truthfully, it wasn’t a bad concept. Two perspectives colliding. Two artists with unfinished business are literally painting their way toward some kind of resolution.
They spent the next hour in silence, sketching light outlines in pencil. Lola chose deep purples and muted ochres; Tristan laid out ocean blues and burnt sienna.
She was focused. He was quiet.
Too quiet.
“You’re staring,” she muttered.
Tristan didn’t look away. “You still bite your lip when you’re thinking.”
“Old habits.”
“Some things don’t change.”
Lola put down her pencil. “You don’t get to say that. Not after five years of silence.”
He exhaled. “I know.”
She walked away before the hurt could crawl up her throat and make a scene. She found solace in organizing paints by hue, a soothing ritual she’d carried since art school.
Tristan followed at a respectful distance. “I didn’t call because I didn’t know what to say.”
“You could’ve said anything.”
“I was scared.”
That stopped her cold.
She turned slowly. “You? Scared?”
“I thought if I called... I’d drag us both down. I wasn’t in a good place. The internship in LA was brutal. I was broke, sleeping on someone’s couch, eating cereal for dinner. I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go.”
“You didn’t let me go,” she said. “You abandoned me.”
He didn’t argue.
Instead, he picked up a brush and began mixing colors. “You’re right.”
Lola didn’t know what to do with that. She was ready for excuses. Defensiveness. Maybe even an argument. But not this... quiet admission.
She joined him at the table, taking her own brush, gripping it tighter than necessary.
“Let’s just paint,” she said.
They worked for hours, only speaking when absolutely necessary—about color placement, brushstroke direction, composition flow. It was efficient. Professional. Almost surgical.
And yet, their proximity hummed.
At one point, their hands touched while reaching for the same paint tube. They both froze, eyes meeting.
Lola snatched hers back. “Sorry.”
“No, I—” He hesitated. “I missed this.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The ache in her chest was too loud.
---
Around 2 p.m., Maya texted.
MAYA: Are you alive? Did he combust under your glare?
LOLA: No fatalities. Yet.
MAYA: Want me to fake an emergency?
LOLA: Tempting. But no. We’re actually working.
MAYA: Well damn. Make sure he suffers from the emotional trauma. Also hydrate.
---
By late afternoon, they'd completed the rough layout: Lola’s side painted in rich, shadowy brushstrokes that bled into Tristan’s sharper, cooler tones. A horizon line blurred at the center—jagged, unresolved.
“Looks like heartbreak,” he said quietly.
“Maybe it is.”
They stood back, side by side, looking at what they’d made.
Tristan spoke first. “This is good.”
Lola didn’t answer. Her throat was tight again.
Then, from the front of the gallery: the unmistakable sound of a door opening.
Jules popped back in, dramatically swirling a to-go cup of matcha. “How’s my favorite pain canvas coming?”
Lola gestured to the half-finished piece.
Jules clapped. “Oh my God, it’s giving... regret. Longing. Abandonment issues in brush form. I love it.”
Tristan gave a short laugh. “That’s oddly accurate.”
Jules turned serious for a moment. “You know, sometimes... the canvas tells you how much you’ve grown. Or how much you still haven’t.”
Lola blinked.
Then Jules was gone again, just like that—off to another studio, another moment to meddle in.
The two of them stood in silence, the gallery suddenly too still.
Tristan sat down on the floor against the wall and patted the space beside him. “Truce?”
Lola hesitated.
Then she sat. Not close. But not far, either.
“You really didn’t think I’d be here?” she asked.
“I hoped. But I didn’t let myself believe it.”
“Why?”
“Because you always felt like the part of me I didn’t deserve.”
She stared at him. “That’s not romantic. That’s tragic.”
He gave a tired smile. “That’s what I am, Lo. Tragic with a nice jawline.”
She laughed despite herself. Then sobered.
“I’m not the same person I was back then,” she said.
“Neither am I.”
They sat like that for a while—surrounded by the smell of paint, the hum of city traffic outside, and the echo of everything unsaid.
Finally, Lola stood. “Tomorrow we lay. Bring texture.”
He nodded, standing too. “I’ll be here.”
“Don’t be late.”
He smiled. “Wouldn’t dare.”
---
That night, Lola lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Maya was out with friends, and the apartment was quiet. On her nightstand sat an old sketchpad she hadn’t touched in years.
She opened it.
Page after page of half-finished faces. Shadows. Longing. The ones toward the back were the oldest.
Tristan’s jawline.
Tristan’s hands.
Tristan’s eyes.
And then—one page she’d forgotten. A sketch of both of them. Back when they were still dreaming in sync, tangled in art and hope.
She closed the sketchbook carefully. Pressed it to her chest.
Then whispered, to no one in particular: “What if we’d tried?”
The answer didn’t come.
But morning would.
And with it—a canvas that still wasn’t finished.
- Writer
