I shift in my seat, hating that his words have made my nose and eyes burn with tears. Long ago I concluded I wouldn’t cry for them.

“Babe, tell me how I can help. I hate this.”

I brush my cheek with the back of my hand in an attempt to make my tears go unseen and release a slightly garbled laugh because my throat is tight with the need to cry. “I just want to go to my apartment, eat something, and go to bed.”

He nods, blowing a long sigh out of his nose as he reaches forward and starts the truck. We ride in silence. It’s not even raining tonight to create a soft distraction, leaving me to repeat the ugly evening again and again in my head.

King pulls into an empty spot and slides out of the truck, not waiting for me to give him permission to see me in. I appreciate it because I think we both know I wouldn’t have tonight. He doesn’t stop at my door when I turn ever so slightly to say goodnight either. He walks past me, straight into our small studio apartment, and flips on the lights. It’s messy as it usually is. The only way this place could ever truly look clean would be for us to get rid of half of our belongings. King doesn’t comment though. He moves into the kitchen as though he’s comfortable in the space and opens the fridge.

I lock the front door, curious about his intentions, but still wallowing in too much self-pity to safely ask without exposing how thin my façade is. I sit on our single couch and watch as he rifles through the fridge and freezer, already knowing he won’t find much.

Not once does he ask for direction or for my approval on what he’s making. He simply sets to work, opening drawers and cupboards that he digs through, rarely showing any emotion. It helps to watch him. The focus in his eyes and tightly sealed lips, the speed of his hands as he dices and cuts, and the movements he makes between the stove and his workspace all remind me of watching him in the shop. There’s an intensity when King sets his mind to something, an impenetrable focus that I respect and admire because I understand it so intimately. I wonder if this is what I look like when I work. I hope it is.

It’s not long before he delivers a plate to me with scrambled eggs filled with sautéed onions, a pepper I didn’t know we had, sun-dried tomatoes, and cheese. I never would have even considered adding the tomatoes, but they, like King, are unexpectedly my favorite part.

Once our plates are cleaned, I give King a shy thank-you, grab a pair of pajamas from my dresser, and close myself in the bathroom—the only area of space in the entire studio apartment that has four walls and a door.

I stand under the stream of the water and think of the show, recalling my steps, the sway of my hips, the weight on the balls of my feet, how tall I stood. It all filled me with a confidence I never knew I could possess. A beauty and power that somehow felt tangible even if I was the only one who truly saw it. I hold the memories through shampooing and conditioning my hair, and then think of the mural I recently finished at Sonar, the large painting of Kash riding on the wall of the shop and how I’d like to add all of the others beside him. I think of the first sketch I ever drew with charcoal, and receiving my acceptance letter to college.

The power I felt while on stage was exhilarating, fun, fresh, new, but in comparison to the feelings I experience when I complete a piece of art, they all pale.

Why can’t my family see that?

My hair is still wet, pulled up into a bun when I make my way back out to the apartment. I had wanted to be alone, yet now all I want to do is lie down beside King. Thankfully, he knew not to leave me and without me asking, he steps forward and pulls me into a hug, holding me so close to him I can feel each of his breaths and every beat of his heart.

“LO!” I hesitate before turning around to face him, knowing he’s going to have accusation and pain in his brown eyes as well as frustration. “Why are you avoiding me?” He isn’t supposed to be here, I know. I heard him working through his schedule with Parker after he let me cry on his chest. His phone rang and went to voicemail four times before he reluctantly answered.

I recognize the anger in his stance first, quickly followed by the accusation as his fists move to his hips just like Mercedes. “I’m not. I’ve just had to get stuff done this week.”

“You’ve left early every day this week.”

“You’ve gotten home late,” I reply.

“I’m busy. Things are crazy with PR and all of the last-minute shoots and interviews.”

I nod, hoping I look understanding rather than unhappy.

“I’ve been thinking about Italy,” King continues.

“So have I.”

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue. “What are you thinking?”

“I think we should take a break while I’m gone.” Narrowing his eyes, he flexes his jaw, making me continue even faster. “We’re going to be busy. You’re going to be on a different schedule and traveling, and—”

“Why in the hell do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I’m trying to explain that to you.”

“We’ve talked about this shit. We both know it’s going to be difficult. Do you think I’m looking forward to having to see your face over a computer screen for three months? Not hearing your voice from beside me, but two countries and an ocean away? Do you think I don’t know how much this is going to fucking suck?”

“All of my life I’ve waited for others. I waited until my dad wasn’t too busy, or my mom wasn’t distracted by some new boyfriend. Whenever it suited them, I was their daughter. This whole art thing has always been a hobby to my mom and a crazy obsession according to my dad. He still hasn’t even taken the time to look at my portfolio. He has no idea if I suck. I doubt he’ll ever know because he doesn’t care.

“We aren’t going to be able to be there for each other. I can’t be there to support you … You’re getting ready to unfold some of your biggest dreams, King, and I am too, and we’re going to miss every single moment of it for the other, and I think it will tarnish our own successes.”

King shakes his head dismissively. “Loving someone doesn’t mean you have to give up on your dreams. Whenever I’m able to attend things, I will, just like you will for me.”

“Conveniences build pain and resentment. Love is only made to bend so far.”

“Dude, come on! We’re late!” Parker calls from the front door.

“You need to go,” I tell him.

“I need you to stop thinking of me like your family. That’s them, not us.” King sweeps a hand across the room, his forearms flexing and his eyes bright with anger.

“I’m not saying you are.”

“Like hell! Lo, you’re worth it. I’m willing to put everything into this. You need to decide if you are.”

I nod, but can’t look at him. I want to believe the conviction in his words so badly. The trouble is—I don’t.

King brushes a kiss to my temple, a gentle squeeze to my sides. “I’ll call you later.”

My footsteps are slow as I leave the office in search of Mercedes. I told Kash I was accepted the day after I told King. He didn’t seem surprised in the least, but he did appear sad. I asked them both to allow me the chance to tell Mercedes, knowing the news would be difficult for her to hear from anyone, but especially if it came from someone other than me. I find her in her room, finishing homework.

“Took you long enough. Were you guys playing smoochy face this entire time?” Her eyes remain on her notebook, but I see the sarcastic smile in the tightening of her cheeks and temples.

“Want to go on a walk today?”

She moves her head up to face me, narrowing her green eyes with speculation. “Why?”

I shrug absently. “It’s nice out.”

“No it’s not.”

“Let’s go.” I lift my chin in the direction of the door.