That’s when my brain melted, neurons firing in every direction, heart beating through my teeth while anger flooded my bloodstream.

“Some random painter.” I screamed the only words I’d heard him say. “SOME RANDOM PAINTER? You are the asshole!” And then I was out the door, running through the narrow path in the woods, over branches and leaves that swatted and scratched at my skin, all the way to my studio—the only reason that I was here.

*  *  *

I don’t remember working, though I know that I did—long enough for my t-shirt to soak through with sweat; for my hair to float up into a nest, then plaster itself back to my forehead. Long enough for my bare feet to turn black with dirt and my shoulders to hunch in pain. A pile of empty beer cans rose up in the corner, evidence of a fresh inability to abstain during working hours, a failure of my own personal temperance; coffee grounds and Pop-Tart wrappers filled the trash. I worked for—what—a day? two?—but don’t remember any of it.

I only remember being devastated.

I knew it. I knew that I didn’t matter to him. I was, of course, some random painter. I didn’t have a name or a place in his consciousness. I was simply another young woman in a long line of young women who came here to make beautiful things with our beautiful bodies. We each stood in for Carey until the summer ended and he could send us away. I felt foolish—and blind—and humiliated. I would never see Tyler’s inside—not really. And though it was the closest I’d ever been to Carey Logan, I’d never know her either, and the loneliness of it all nearly killed me.

Something was happening with DROP OUT—that had to be the film—but I was torn right down the middle. The more I dug up about Carey, the more I jeopardized my own future. All Pine City had to do was ask me to leave before my paintings were finished, or call Jacqueline, or Susan, and rat me out—and then I’d be finished, too.

I had to complete my work. By my count, I was almost out of time: four more days to paint.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Tyler drove up and asked if he could come in and talk.

“I’m fine,” I told him through the door, without opening it. “I need to work.”

“I hate that I hurt you,” he said.

“I’ll be out of here soon, and you’ll have Carey’s studio back for the next one. The next random whatever.”

“That’s not how it is,” he said sharply. “That’s never been how it is.”

“I don’t care,” I told him, and then I walked away from the door and turned up the stereo as loud as it would go.