The moon was usually my muse, and I was working on a paper treatment that created the texture of the moon’s surface (and maybe one day, Cháng’é willing, would be the thing to make me famous). But today, without thinking, I painted a silhouette that dissolved into a galaxy in which he didn’t belong.

Art flowed through me, compelling me to create, but so far my creations were only for my eyes. Even after all this time, I hadn’t been able to share my paintings with anyone, not even Jason, not really. (I made myself show him only when I desperately needed feedback, and that was as painful as dragging a knife across my skin.)

Once my parents had cut me off for dropping out of college to pursue art, I’d halted at the bridge connecting us, terrified to stomp on the last, already-splintered wooden plank. Terrified to actually go for it. Because if I tried to make it, if I shared my art with someone, then that would make it real, and it would be harder to go back. My parents had been the ones to break the other planks, but I still had control over that last one.

Worse, what if I failed? What if I shared only to learn that I sucked at this and I’d thrown away my family for nothing? I had already fought and lost; I couldn’t lose again with the one thing I had left.

That’s why I can’t stop thinking about her, I realized. Jing-Jing and I had a connection, not because of how her parents were with her (I’d seen that on every job), but because of how she was with them. She cared but was also fighting for what she wanted—a life without Hongbo.

I was thinking about her just because of my own messed-up shit. Nothing else.

I tilted my head and examined the painted silhouette from all angles. My art didn’t feel complete without a moon. So at the top I added a half-moon crying over the broken silhouette, unable to put the pieces back together.

And then, like the fool I was, I texted her. Maybe because I had hope that she would understand me when no one else did, not even myself. Maybe because every time her face scrunched with worry and that little dimple appeared on her forehead, I felt a need to fix it, and that dimple had been front and center the last time I’d seen her.

Maybe I just couldn’t help it, prerogative or no prerogative.

November 30, 1:23 p.m. PST

<Drew>

Thanks for the five stars

Hope you’re ok

December 1, 11:41 a.m. PST

<Drew>

Sorry

You don’t have to respond if you don’t want

I know this is weird

Erm, I’m making it weird

I shouldn’t have texted

Sorry

Um, take care

Drew CHAPTER 20 HEAD BANGING

December 3