Harper stretched her limbs on the couch. She moves like a cat, he thought as he tore off the charcoal sketch from the pad. Languid and smooth. Once she’d become used to his eye on her, she’d relaxed. Sean set up the stretched canvas on the portable stand and began to mix the acrylics on the same board he’d used for over a decade. It was stained a cocktail of colors, layers deep.

He’d already had every line of her ingrained in his memory, but it was different to allow those lines to flow from his head—from his heart—through his fingers and onto something real. Something tangible. Something he could keep if he loosened his grip and she slipped away.

Now, his fingers full of the muscle memories of her, he could begin the acrylic painting that would keep her. Immortalized.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Harper had tucked into a thick book, long ago given up hope that he’d let go of this project.

“Moving onto acrylic.”

“The charcoal’s done? Isn’t that enough?”

He gave her a half smile. “Charcoal is just a warm-up,” he said.

“Can I see?”

“Later. I’d rather you see them both at the same time.”

She gave him a faux pout. “Fine,” she said.

It took him ten minutes to blend the perfect reds and browns together to capture her hair. It caught fire in certain lights, but burned a slow and deep ember in others. The yellow undertones of her skin, so contrary to the rest of her and cradled below the nearly constant pink glow of her blushes, also took plenty of experimenting.

“Tell me something honestly?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“How many other girls have you painted?”

“None. Not like this at least.”

“Then how?”

He shrugged. “You know. Live models. I took quite a few classes when I was a kid and a teenager. In college. Occasionally I’d hire my own private models.”

“Oh.” She worried at her lip.

“Jealous?” he asked.

“No,” she said, too quickly.

“Aren’t you going to ask what those private models looked like?” he asked.

“No. But if you really want to tell me …”

He gave a laugh. “There weren’t that many. One weighed four hundred pounds. I know because she was quick to tell me. One was a double amputee from a car accident.”

“Wait, what?”

“You wanted to know,” he said. “I was interested in capturing what we don’t usually see in art. What we don’t normally consider beautiful. Trust me, it was much more challenging, and enjoyable, than the usual wannabe models that showed up for figure classes. No offense,” he said quickly.

“None taken,” she sniffed. “I think I worked hard enough to warrant not being envious of a wannabe model. So … how many times did you paint them? The private models?”

“I met with each of them maybe three to five times each.”

“Where are those paintings now? Can I see them?”

“Sure,” he said. “But they’re in storage, back on the East Coast. Eventually I’ll have everything shipped here. They’re not the most outstanding in terms of sheer artistic merit, but they’re interesting.”

Sean’s phone vibrated angrily on the glass dining table. “Shit, sorry,” he said. “I thought that was on silent.” He reached over to switch it off, but paused at the name. Seeing Ashton’s name light up his screen shot him back months in the past.

“Who is it?” she asked. Harper sensed the shift in the air.

“I think it’s Ashton,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, hold on.” He paused and considered taking the call in the other room. But what was the point? It was the two of them now, Harper and him. She might as well listen. He held up a finger to his mouth and answered the call with speakerphone. “Hello?”

“Sean?” He thought maybe Ashton’s voice would have changed since the accident, though that didn’t make any logical sense. But it was the same voice he’d known for over a decade. The same voice that egged him on in college, that was cool and soothing on the nights his parents drove him nearly over the edge.

“Hi, hey, Ashton,” he said. “How’s it going? Sorry, that’s kind of a stupid question.”

“Yeah. It is,” Ashton said. There was an edge in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Sean couldn’t tell if it was reserved just for him, or maybe it was permanent. “Although I guess I could say I’m better than I was a few weeks ago. Or at least I’ve been told.”

“Ashton … I’m sorry, man,” he said. “For everything, for that night, for taking so long to come and see you.” He could feel Harper’s eyes on him. When he looked up, she gazed at him with empathy in her eyes.

“You’re sorry?” Ashton gave a curt laugh. “Sorry’s for bailing on the bar tab. That doesn’t really cut it.”

“I’m … I don’t know what else to say,” Sean said.

“You can start by saying you’re not going to cause trouble with the lawsuit. I don’t have the time—or the energy—to make this a huge ordeal in court. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just suck it up and do the right thing.”

“The right thing? Wait, you’re moving forward with the lawsuit?” Sean hadn’t heard anything from T, and he knew she wouldn’t waste any time if she had news. “Has your attorney talked to mine? Do you—”

“That’s a question to ask your lawyer,” Ashton snapped. “Regardless of what bullshit they discuss though, I can promise you that yes, the lawsuit is moving forward. You’re not getting out of this with some kind of deal or plea bargain or any of that crap.”

Anger began to simmer in Sean, but he willed it down, swallowed it like an uncomfortable lump in the throat. “And what exactly do you think I’m guilty of?” he asked. “I don’t know how much you remember of that night, but you were driving. We were both drinking, but those were your drugs. The blow, the pills—”

“Oh, were they?” Ashton asked. “Can you prove that? The pills were stolen. I know I was the only one with coke in my system, but can you prove you didn’t provide it? That you weren’t the dealer, not just mine but a shitload of other people’s?”

“You know that’s not true,” Sean said slowly.

“Does a jury know that’s not true? How do you think that would look to them? And since I was so messed up, on drugs that it appears you supplied, don’t you think you should have taken charge of the situation? Not let me drive? Wouldn’t that have been the responsible thing to do?”

“This is bullshit and you know it,” Sean said. “What are you getting out of this?”

“Well, for starters, I have a six-figure hospital bill that needs to be paid. But beyond that, my lawyer says I have an equally high amount of pain and suffering he’s more than happy to assign a dollar amount to.”

“Hospital bills?” Sean asked. “What about your insurance? What—”

“Insurance?” Ashton asked with a laugh. “Yeah, you rich kids take that shit for granted. I was a twenty-something recent college grad and an entry-level job! What kind of insurance did you think I had?”

“So it’s about the money,” Sean said. It’s always about money.

“Of course not!” Ashton said. “What is it with you trust fund babies? Always on about the money. It’s about the principle, you fucking prick. You got off without a scratch, and I was in a coma for almost six fucking months! Six months I won’t get back. And you just got to prance back to your goddamned gilded life like nothing happened—”

“Is that how you think it went?” Sean asked. Harper flinched at the edge in his voice, but he couldn’t pull back now. “I was in fucking hell!” he screamed at the phone. “And, in case you weren’t informed of this, I spent quite a bit of time since then in jail.”

“And you should have! Fuck, Sean, you should be in prison right now! If it weren’t for your daddy’s money bailing you out—”

“You know what? Fuck you,” Sean said. “You want to keep going with the lawsuit, fine. And you want to see what money can really do? Let’s just see how your DA does against one of the best attorneys in town.”

“You’re going to fucking pay—”

Sean reached over and cut off the call before he could hear anything more.

“Are you okay?” Harper asked gently. She moved to get up, but he gestured for her to sit back down.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I just need to cool off. You mind if I just keep drawing?”

“I … I guess,” she said. “If that’ll help.”

“I need to keep my hands busy,” he said.

Harper leaned back against the couch and opened her book. He noticed that for several minutes, she didn’t turn the page. Her muscles were clenched and her jaw was clamped. Still, the meditative movement of his fingers and hands rocked him back to a soothing state.

What could Ashton really do? Would a judge or jury really buy the whole idea that Sean was some nefarious drug dealer? He shook his head. There was no context for him to gauge either way. But there was also no way Sean would just go ahead and plead guilty to something he hadn’t done.

He was already guilty enough, racked with it.