My inspiration is at an all-time high. When I’m not with her, all I want to do is paint.

As I add the finishing touches to another painting, I hear a knock at my front door. I take a step back from the canvas and admire my work one more time. The knocks continue to grow louder. I hate being interrupted while I work. Annoyed, I put my brush down and walk toward the front door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Harry.”

I unlock the door and see him standing in the hallway. He has a serious expression on his face as he steps inside my studio. He walks toward the center of the room and looks at the painting I’m working on.

“What do you think?” I ask, standing beside him.

“It’s good.”

I can tell Harry has something on his mind.

“To what do I owe the visit, Harry? If you’re worried about not having enough quality paintings for the gallery exhibit, don’t be. I’ve been working like a madman. We’ll have plenty to choose from.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Harry explains, distracted. “I got a call today from DJ Mendacity.”

I shrug. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s one of the hottest DJ’s in the country right now.”

I guess I really have been living under a rock lately, I tell myself. Because his name doesn’t ring a bell.

“Anyway, he’s a big fan of yours. He’s willing to pay three million for a Jackson Miller original. If you want, you can just give him one of the paintings you don’t want to send to Amanda. I don’t think it really matters. As long as it’s an original. That’s all he cares about.”

I notice Harry’s subdued demeanor. “I thought you’d be a lot happier about making an easy three million dollars.”

Harry sighs and finally looks at me. “Maybe I would be if I hadn’t stopped by the other day, looking for you, and bumped into a woman named Rebecca.”

I avoid his concerned look and walk toward a sink in the corner of the room. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say with a shrug. I start to wash off my brushes and set them to dry.

“I think we should,” Harry insists. “She looks exactly like Ashley.”

He’s staring at me with the most serious expression.

“Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it.” I dry my hand with a towel and walk away from him, but Harry is close behind me.

“I thought I had seen a ghost, Jackson. She’s the spitting image of Ashley. Same eyes, same hair, everything.”

“It’s just a coincidence,” I snap.

“That’s bullshit!” Harry shouts. “What the hell is going on, Jackson?”

“Leave it alone, Harry.”

“How did you find her?” he pesters.

I turn and finally face him. “We found each other.”

“What does that even mean? ‘We found each other,’” Harry repeats mockingly. “You don’t just find someone who looks exactly like your dead wife and start sleeping with her. That doesn’t just happen, Jackson. Somebody orchestrates something like that. Have you told your therapist about this?”

I notice the tension in Harry’s body, the frustration in his tone.

“Why do you care, Harry? So, I met someone who looks like Ashley and started seeing her. Why does it bother you so much?”

“Why does it bother me?” Harry repeats in disbelief. “Because it’s fucking crazy, Jackson! It’s not normal. It’s not healthy.”

“But I’m painting again,” I remind him. “I thought that’s all that matters. You just came by to tell me that this DJ Hypocrisy wants to pay us three million dollars for an original. Isn’t that all that matters? That I’m painting again and we’re making money?”

Harry shakes head. “First of all, his name is DJ Mendacity. Not Hypocrisy. And money isn’t the only thing that matters here.”

I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Give me a break, Harry. Money is the only thing you care about.”

I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. “That’s not true,” Harry replies, his feelings hurt. “I’ve had your back, Jackson, for years. I’ve been in your corner this entire time. This isn’t about money. This is about you being with someone who looks exactly like Ashley. And that’s fuckin’ crazy.”

“Are you happy that I’m painting again?”

“Of course, I’m happy that you’re painting again,” Harry replies. “That’s not the point.”

“That’s the only point!” I shout angrily. “Painting is the only point. I’m finally working again. After months of being suicidally depressed, I’m happy and working again.” I take a moment to calm down. “Why don’t you just worry about the business, Harry, and let me worry about my personal life.”

There is a long moment of silence as we both stare at each other. Harry and I have been friends and business partners for years. This is the first fight I can recall us ever having.

“Doesn’t this seem a little crazy to you, Jackson?” he asks softly.

As I stare at my agent/manager and best friend, I admit the truth, “I don’t care if it’s crazy, Harry. It feels right.”

Harry doesn’t know how to respond. The silence lingers. I sense his worry and concern for my well-being, but what I told him is true. I don’t care anymore if what I’m doing with Rebecca is crazy. I finally feel alive again, and I’m happy to be working. That’s all that matters.

“If you don’t mind, Harry, I’d really like to get back to work.”

Harry stares at me and slowly nods. I see the hurt feelings in his eyes. He then turns and walks toward the door. “I’ll call DJ Mendacity and schedule a time for him to come by and pick up a painting,” he mutters.

“Sounds good,” I tell him, following him to the door.

“I’m just looking out for you, Jackson,” he reiterates as he steps into the hallway.

“I have this under control.”

I then close the door and listen to Harry’s footsteps as he descends the stairs.

I let out a heavy sigh and walk back toward the center of the studio. I stare at the multiple canvases I have breathed life into these last few weeks. Harry doesn’t understand that I’ve entered another plane of existence, taken my craft to a higher level. My work is more powerful and inspired than ever before.

I have her to thank for that.