Chapter 3

Three days after the art exhibition blowup. My last day in Boston.

St. Jude High School's advanced art class was preparing its final graduation group painting.

It was a six-person project, and the grade would directly affect our final GPA.

As usual, Ronan was the glamorous team leader, while I was the "shadow" behind him, doing all the dirty work.

But today was clearly different.

The studio smelled of turpentine and stale coffee.

The other four group members were chatting by the couch while I stood in front of the enormous project canvas.

In my hand was a sharp palette knife.

Piece by piece, without mercy, I scraped away the base layer I'd stayed up nights painting only a few days earlier.

The studio door slammed open.

Ronan walked in with a dark expression.

Mireille was holding onto his arm, several shopping bags in her other hand.

The moment Ronan saw me, his anger immediately found a target.

He stormed over and hissed through clenched teeth.

"Isolde! How dare you cancel that debit card last night?"

"Do you have any idea how humiliating it was when the waiter told me my card had been declined in front of Mireille and the gallery dealer?"

He glared at me, completely convinced that everything I was doing was just an attempt to get his attention.

"I put up with your little tantrum over the exhibition."

"Now unfreeze the account immediately."

"And what are you doing here?"

"The base layer is behind schedule. You need to finish it tonight!"

His tone was as arrogant as ever.

In his mind, I was just a dog throwing a temporary tantrum.

All he had to do was wave his hand, and I'd come running back, tail wagging, ready to pay his bills and finish his paintings.

I stopped scraping.

With a clang, I dropped the palette knife into the sink.

Then I turned around and casually wiped the paint from my fingertips with a rag.

I walked over to the table and slammed down every sketch, data sheet, color composition, and file I'd been responsible for.

"I'm out."

My voice was calm, but in the silent studio, every word was crystal clear.

The four group members who had been chatting immediately fell silent and turned toward us.

Ronan stared at me.

"What did you say?"

"I said I'm officially withdrawing from the graduation project."

Ignoring his stunned expression, I pointed toward the canvas I'd scraped nearly raw.

"From now on, the base coat, composition, and finishing touches are all your problem, genius team leader."

"My part ends here."

The studio fell into dead silence.

A few seconds later, Ronan's face turned dark red.

In front of Mireille and the other group members, his authority had been completely stripped away.

"Isolde, have you lost your mind?"

He tried to intimidate me the way he always had.

"Do you know you'll get a C in this class if you drop out of the project now?"

"With a grade like that, how are you going to get into college?"

"Do you really have to make this ugly?"

Looking at his furious face, I suddenly found it almost funny.

He still thought he had a hold on me.

"Whatever."

I looked at him calmly.

"If getting a C buys me freedom from three years of stupidity, it's a bargain."

Ronan was speechless.

He clearly hadn't expected me to care so little about the grade.

He took a deep breath, forcing down his anger before putting on a patronizing expression.

"Listen. I know you feel wronged."

"If you unfreeze the card right now and finish the base layer like you're supposed to, I'll reluctantly put your name second on the graduation project."

"How's that?"

"Second credit?"

I couldn't help laughing.

There was nothing in my eyes except mockery.

"You took the half-finished work I stayed up nights creating to impress someone else."

"You used the money I earned waiting tables to show off at a Michelin restaurant."

"And now you're offering me a credit I don't even want?"

I stared at him and spoke slowly.

"Listen carefully, Ronan."

"Your name means nothing to me."

"And the days of you spending my money are over."

I didn't bother looking at his livid face or Mireille's fake, awkward surprise.

I grabbed my art bag and walked straight out of the studio.

"Isolde! If you walk out that door today, don't ever come crawling back to me. Even if you beg on your knees, I won't let you back in!"

Ronan's furious roar followed me.

I didn't even turn around.

I just walked faster.

Back at the apartment I'd paid a full year's rent for, I dragged an old black suitcase out from under the bed.

There was surprisingly little in the apartment that belonged to me.

His expensive custom shirts filled the spacious closet.

I had only a few faded T-shirts.

His imported paints were piled beside the easel.

My pencil cup held nothing but a few worn-out brushes.

It took me less than twenty minutes to pack everything I owned.

Before leaving, I tossed the spare key onto the dining table where we'd once shared cheap takeout.

Door closed.

Lock turned.

Clean.

Final.

Eight that night, I was at Boston's South Station.

I sat on a cold metal chair in the waiting hall, holding a long navy velvet box.

Inside was a custom solid-silver palette knife with Ronan's name engraved on the handle.

I'd spent a month eating discounted bread to afford it.

I'd even handed out flyers on freezing streets for two straight weeks.

I'd imagined countless times how surprised he'd be when he received it as a graduation gift.

Now, it was nothing but an expensive piece of irony.

"Amtrak Northeast Regional service to Providence, Rhode Island will begin boarding at Gate 6…"

A mechanical female voice echoed through the station.

I stood up and walked toward the enormous trash can.

I looked at the gleaming silver palette knife in my hand.

I felt nothing.

I opened my fingers.

Clang.

The expensive gift that represented three years of foolish devotion disappeared into the bottom of the trash.

Then I took out my phone.

Ronan Black — Delete Contact.

Mireille Laurent — Delete Contact.

iMessage, Instagram, Snapchat — Blocked everywhere.

When I was done, I slipped my phone back into my pocket, grabbed my suitcase, and strode toward the platform.

The train slowly picked up speed on the tracks.

Then it broke through Boston's gloomy night and headed toward the glittering stars over the East Coast.

Goodbye, Ronan.

Hello, Rhode Island.