He made another turn, another stroll, little humming noises coming from his throat. I kept my mouth shut to maintain an air of mystery and also not babble like an idiot, which was, of course, my way.

I glanced out the window, and there I was, looking in. Not me, not really, but some kid—God, so young, probably not even twenty. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt and had dyed, messy black hair, a bull nose ring and pierced eyebrow. Yep. Me, fifteen years ago. I smiled a little. He gave me a nod, then kept going.

I remembered that feeling. That outside-looking-in feeling. The someday-that-will-be-me feeling. I had it right now, even though I was literally on the inside.

The paintings . . . well, they were frickin’ beautiful, no doubt. How could they not be? They were flowers. The colors were rich and deep, the technique well executed. All week long, I’d painted with every damn emotion in the world—fear about my father, anger and love for Noah, ambition, hope, peace, contentment, joy, terror, uncertainty.

But looking at them here, where they might well sell for tens of thousands of bucks apiece, I had to admit it. Noah was right.

They were couch paintings, and they weren’t me. They were the me of college, trying to be something I was not. I’d been telling myself I stumbled onto something with the vagina flower painting, but I hadn’t. I’d done an O’Keeffe and added a few squiggles, and it was a cheap trick. These seven at least, had been done with some passion and energy. But they still weren’t me.

That stupid sunset was. The one I’d practically flung off the easel to make these porn flowers.

“It’s . . . interesting,” Hasan finally said, looking at me. “When I saw the painting at the party, I was struck by its intensity and authenticity. These . . . I just don’t think they have the same impact, and I’m trying to figure out why.”

Well, shit. “Hm.”

“There’s something missing in these, whereas the lilies and sweet pea painting had such a stark disparity, such a contrast between the lush sensuality and the void of emotional despair. It was a battle between chastity and vulgarity.” He shook his head. “I’m just not feeling that same emotional upheaval here.”

Oh, the fuckery. “Interesting.” It seemed like a safe word. Chastity and vulgarity? The void of emotional despair? Words that had never once entered my brain as I made the brownstone painting. These seven? The entire tornado of human emotions.