Everything She Never Had // Chapter 13

The Work

With a goal of completing at least 15 new paintings on canvas for my upcoming gallery exhibition with Elise, and just over a month and a half to make it happen, I quickly realized the guest room I’d been using as a makeshift art studio for the past few years, just wasn’t going to cut it—I simply needed more space to work.

Since Chris had been working overtime trying to get back on my good side—though, unbeknownst to him, nothing he did at this point could ever be bold enough to undo what he put me through on our honeymoon—nor could he remove himself from my ick list after the way he’d behaved since our wedding day—still, I let him try—because, frankly, I needed the help.

We spent three days cleaning out the garage and with a little elbow grease and creativity, turned it into a full-blown art studio. Chris and I had always worked well together in situations like this, slipping into an easy rhythm that somehow made sense, even though I didn’t want to admit it. With a few unexpected laughs, along with the progress we made, I started to soften maybe more than I was ready to acknowledge—but I felt it, and my new art studio proved we could still work well as a team.

With nearly four times as much room to spread out, a few large work tables prepped with supplies and ample space to paint smaller works on paper or canvas, I could see nothing that would get in my way of completing my task and hitting my goal, and I was excited to finally get to work.

It was early evening as I quietly wandered within the three walls, alone—pacing from corner to corner, organizing my brushes and paints, pinning up inspirational photos and prints—just making the space my own so that nothing would distract me once I started creating. I closed the garage door at dusk to keep the bugs out, and had an overwhelming sense of peace just standing in my new studio. It put a smile on my face and a comfort in my bones that I hadn’t felt in months.

Since I mostly work with water-based paints, I don’t have to worry about long drying times like I would with oils, but California summers are relentless and the heat cuts dry-time in half anyway. The ceiling fan we installed does little more than push warm air around, making it uncomfortably hot to work during the day, even with the main door open, and I’m not a huge fan of looky loos and neighbors popping in to chat when I’m trying to work.

The hot days and possible interruptions just add to my list of reasons why I prefer working at night, not that I need another reason or excuse aside from it being my preference, but sometimes it helps when discussing my work schedule with people who follow society’s daily time clock—which is—most of the people.

It feels like such a freedom to me, such a luxury to make my own hours, to sleep and wake and work whenever I feel like it rather than being held down by what society tells me I should do—especially since I don’t have to punch a clock. But I still get the judgmental side eye when I talk about my schedule, particularly, if I mention sleeping in until noon—or, God forbid, later than noon.

I think people often equate sleeping in with laziness, which I find a bit ironic—especially since the only reason I’m sleeping in is because I’m up working into the early hours of the morning. But I get the sense that many assume that late risers are just out partying all night, which may have been true in my early twenties, I’ll admit, but the furthest from reality now. Artists tend to keep their own hours—when inspiration strikes, we follow.

Still, sleeping in feels like a luxury, and maybe that’s the real issue: the audacity of someone choosing to live outside the rules society programmed into us. Maybe it triggers something in people who secretly wish they could sleep in too, but won’t allow themselves the freedom.

Tina Turner famously said, "I am late to bed and late to rise, a habit of years of rock and roll touring." I know this because I read her book, Happiness Becomes You, and that part made me smile. It also helped me stick to my guns, listen to my intuition and own my work and my sleep schedule whenever it came up. Chris was the only one who got to me, under my skin and made me feel the shame trigger, which forced me into a sleep and work schedule that felt completely unnatural to me. I’m glad I’m back, I thought, tidying up a large pile of paintings on paper and thinking of Tina and how her honesty helped me feel less alone.

A light TAP-TAP-TAPPING startled me from my inner dialogue and I stood there staring trying to figure out where the sound was coming from when I heard the squeak of the back door opening and assumed Chris was stopping in to annoy me, but instead it was my brother.

“Max!” I squealed, running over to him to give him a welcome hug. “Hi! I’m so happy you’re here!”

“You said you needed more canvases stretched, so I dropped by after my shift.”

Max is my younger brother, whom I adore, and who happens to be a pro at stretching my canvases. I think it drives Chris mad that I ask Max to do it instead of him, but it’s another excuse for me to hang out with my brother—and, Max just happens to do it ten thousand times better. Chris has this way of saying he wants to help and even offering, but when it comes down to it, when I actually ask him, he acts completely put out by it. He also rarely listens to what I want or need and instead tries to do it his own way, which ends up being completely wrong and then calls me ungrateful when I’m unhappy with the results. So, I just call my brother instead—besides, like I said, it gives us extra brother-sister time to spend hanging out and catching up on each other’s lives.

“So, how’s it going. . . I mean, with you two?” Max asked, pointing to the house. “Mom filled me in on what happened on your honeymoon, I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course,” I said, “I would have told you myself, but I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“I know. . . I’ve been so busy working lately. I haven’t had a break in months.”

Max was the cool kid who turned into the kind of teenager who never quite fit into one box—I guess we are sort of alike in that way. He wasn’t exactly an artist, not quite an engineer, and definitely not a contractor, but he was always building something, and he was damn good at it. He would never admit this out loud but, Max had a natural eye for creating atmosphere, this instinctive understanding of how a space should feel, how to create a mood, beyond the construction or the building of it—but he could do that too! In fact, he was a perfectionist, and he worked hands-on from concept to design on everything he touched.

In high school, he got roped into helping build sets for the theater department and then started getting opportunities to pick up odd jobs outside of school. He worked on music video sets, did light carpentry for commercial shoots, helped a family friend with indie film set builds in warehouses around L.A. and by his late teens, he had quietly built a solid reputation for himself and has been killing it in the industry ever since.

“Let’s go have a smoke,” I waved my arm, leading him out back to the patio. “Yes, I’m smoking again, ignore that. . .So what are you working on, brother?” I asked, offering him a cigarette from my pack, lighting mine and then handing him the lighter.

“Oh, I’ve been working on a few different sets for this action film that takes place in Mexico. They already filmed the major scenes in Mexico, but we’re creating a few sets for filler scenes to seamlessly bridge the gap between the green screen shots and practical soundstage scenes. . .”

I cut him off, “Wait, Mexico... really?” I asked, ignoring all the other words.

“That’s so crazy because when we were in Mexico on our honeymoon, I ran into Finn Michaels at the hospital and then ended up sitting next to him in first class on the flight home. . .”

“Yeah!” he interrupted, “He’s starring in it!” Max beamed.

“NO, HE IS NOT!” I whisper-yelled, hitting Max on the arm, while exhaling a plume of smoke.

“YES HE ABSOLUTELY IS!” Max, whisper-yelled back, matching my excitement and hitting me on the arm. “Damn, that’s wild, Sis—What are the odds?”

“Small world.” I said, my eyes glazing over in utter astonishment—not because it was so unlikely, but because the timing felt too precise, too coincidental to fully grasp in that moment.

“That’s pretty funny, though. . .” Max said, breaking the moment of silence, “actually, he’s a super nice guy, legit down to earth—we talked about furniture ideas he wants to bring to life.”

“Yeah, I honestly got that vibe from him too,” I said, “I spent, what felt like a long flight home with him, but not really because I fell asleep after my first cocktail. It had been a rough few days,” I grumbled, rolling my eyes, “But—he wrote me a little note!” I said more excitedly, “he drew me sleeping peacefully on the plane and included his phone number—”

“Who gave you his phone number?” Chris walked out at that very moment, playfully asking but in a tone I understood much more deeply.

I had to answer this one carefully.

“No one gave me their number, I said he included his phone number, and I was referring to—” but Chris had already stopped listening, so I stopped talking. He walked over to Max and did the whole hand-shake-one-arm-bro-hug thing.

“Hey Max, to what do we owe the honor?”

“I just stopped by to stretch a few canvases for Sam.” Max replied, taking a drag of his cigarette and blowing it in the opposite direction, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Sam, I told you I would do that for you. . . what, you don’t like the way I stretch your canvases?” Chris teased, egging me on in front of Max.

“Oh, you know it just gives me an excuse to spend a little time with my brother.” I said, smiling at Max and giving him a little shoulder bump, though he was over a foot taller than me, so my shoulder just about hit his bicep.

Chris always seemed a little threatened by Max. He was about five inches taller and, admittedly, much better looking—which might sound odd coming from me, considering Max is my brother. But for what it’s worth, it was Chris who pointed that out first.

We snubbed out our cigarettes in the tiny ashtray on the table and started back toward the garage—

“Well, we better get back at it,” I said, motioning Max to follow me back into my new art studio.

“What, I can’t come?” Chris begged, playfully, but with a hint of jealousy in his tone.

“Sorry, Babe,” I said, kissing him for reassurance, “But I have so much to get done and I need these canvases stretched so I can start painting tonight.”

“I’ll stop in the house before I leave,” Max told Chris to get him out of our hair.

“Don’t do me any favors,” Chris said, sarcastically, laughing and patting Max a little too hard on the arm, “Don’t worry, dude, it’s cool.”

Chris went through the slider door as Riley slipped out to join us and with a few leap-twists in the air and big sloppy kisses, welcomed Max, as he always does.

Chris slammed the slider and Riley followed Max and I back into the garage studio.

“So. . . Finn gave you his number? Did you call him?” Max asked, excitedly but quietly.

“Yes he gave me his number, and No! I absolutely did not call him! I just hid the note in an old purse so Chris wouldn’t find it. He was already accusing me of sleeping with the concierge in our hotel after the honeymoon fiasco he got us into, so I didn’t want any more accusations. Besides, I’m married, I can’t call him.”

“Sister, you HAVE to call him!” Max urged me, grinning expressively, “he’s literally the best guy ever—call him! Call him now! Wait! I have his number, hold on. . .” Max pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contact list to FINN and held it up for me to see.

“On a first name basis I see,” I said, casually, “but no, bro, I can’t call him.”

“Fine, I’ll do it for you. . . ” and he tapped his name—but before the call could go through, I grabbed his phone and stopped it.

“OhMYGOD MAX!” I quiet-screamed, giggling like a schoolgirl. “NO! I can’t just call him out of the blue like this! And also, uh, hello, Chris is like two doors away!”

“Yeah, okay, I guess you’re right, but I mean, I could just say he’s my friend and he called. . . you know, he IS in my contacts. We ARE friends, in a Hollywood kinda way—I guess.”

“Well, maybe someday I’ll call him,” I said, contemplatively. “I mean, he did give me his number, so it wouldn’t be insane if I just randomly called him, maybe that’s what he is hoping?—but no, I’m married, I’m not even interested in that kind of drama right now. Between Chris and his moods and prepping for the exhibition, I have enough to deal with already.”

“Alright, fine,” Max said, definitively, “but I might have to figure out a way to let him know that you’re my sister.” He finished, with a smirk, fondling the strips of wood he brought for my canvases.

“Well, if you do, be fucking slick about it,” I said, “I don’t want it to come off like I’m some sort of groupie. In fact, I didn’t even recognize him when I first ran into him in the hospital elevator. I mean, he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.”

“I’ll figure out a way to sneak it into the conversation next time I see him on set,” Max said, smiling, looking at the wood slats.

“Fine,” I said, smiling faintly as I rolled my eyes—shaking my head just enough to hide the much bigger smile threatening to give me away. But I wasn’t fooling anyone, certainly not my brother, who knew me better than anyone, and besides, he was urging me to make a move I wasn’t even ready to think about making.

I helped Max hold the slats of wood in place while he formed the stretchers for my canvases. He already had them all cut to size, so he was prepared. I asked him to make two different larger sizes so I could use them horizontally or vertically and then a handful of randomly sized smaller canvases as well. We worked for a few hours, chatting and laughing while making the frames and then eventually, stretching the canvases on the floor and stapling them tightly into place.

“I think we have all of the canvases stretched for the stretchers I made.” Max said, after looking through his truck one more time just to be sure.

I loved getting to spend more time with Max. We had another smoke break and then Max dropped in the house before Chris went to bed like he said he would, but was only there for about ten minutes before joining me in the studio again.

“We’re still a handful short,” I said, concerned there wouldn’t be enough, “do you have any time in the coming weeks to come back and finish a few more for me?” I begged, mostly because I wanted to hang out a little more, but also, I needed more. “I have some time though, I’ll have my hands full finishing these, so whenever you have a chance, brother, that will work for me—as long as it’s before the end of next month. I'll need a little time to get paint on them.” I teased.

“Alright, alright, you don’t have keep saying it,” he said, laughing, “I can come back next week and if not, the week after at the latest.” Max promised.

“Oh, thank God!” I said, relaxing. “Thank you, Brother, you don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Not a big deal, Sis,” he said, hugging me, “I’ll call you in the next few days to let you know when I have more time off and more wood for the stretchers.” He finished, heading out to his truck. I followed him, and Riley followed me, standing next to me at the top of the driveway waving goodbye until I couldn’t see his lights anymore.

I don’t know what it is about my family, but we refuse to go inside without waving goodbye until you're out of sight. Walking into the house before someone drives off—unless it’s an emergency—is basically a betrayal. Usually there’s also a bit of yelling: “BYE! LOVE YOU!” It’s become a running joke.

I walked back inside with Riley at my feet and flipped through the songs on my iPod, stopping on Tori Amos—my favorite moody painting music. I rummaged through my paint brushes that were laying on the table as Riley curled up in his new fluffy dog bed I bought specifically for him and my new studio. Just as we both got comfortable and the piano intro faded and Tori’s voice came through, I started singing along with her: “Excuse me but can I be you for a while? My dog won't bite if you sit real still—I got the Anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin' at me again, but I can’t. . .” when Chris walked in looking like a storm about to hit.

“Hey. . .” I said, sweetly, trying to extinguish his flame, “I was just about to start painting this big. . .” I pointed to one of the larger canvases Max just stretched that was now leaning vertically against the wall, set atop of my large drop cloth, not that it mattered, I sort of liked the idea of paint drippings all over the garage floor—like my own little ode to Jackson Pollock.

Chris moved through the studio in silence, eyes scanning for something to disapprove of, something to criticize—at least that’s how it felt.

“So, who gave you their phone number?” Chris asked again, with an evil grin this time, running his finger along my table, knocking a few of my brushes on the floor.

“Oh my God, Chris, really?” I said, frustrated, throwing my hands out to the side, “I already told you—now please, I just want to work in peace.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, Sam, I want you to work in peace too, but—”

“No, I meant, I just want to work on this piece,” I corrected him, and myself in a way, trying to avoid more questioning. “Max just stretched them and he just left, and I am super inspired to work,” I said, excitedly, with a crooked smile, trying to change the subject, but pleading with him in a way.

“Why won’t you let me stretch them for you, Sam?” Chris whined, “I do them good, right?” he asked, in horrible grammar, but I didn’t correct him.

He’s not going to let me work without a fight first, I thought, picking up the brushes he knocked on the ground and setting them back on the table.

“Chris, I told you. . . having Max do it just gives me an excuse to hang out with him. He’s so busy and I rarely get to see him—”

But he cut me off.

“You rarely get to see me these days, Sam. . . you’re either sleeping all day or working all night or both and we never get to spend any time together anymore, and then you ask Max to come over and hang out instead of hangin out with me?”

“Look, I’m sorry I’m so busy lately, Chris, you know I have a deadline and I’m super excited to be working again and showing in my own exhibit. This is HUGE for me!” I said excitedly, “Why don’t you get that?” I asked him.

“Yeah, I know—YOU, YOU, YOU—it's always about YOU, Sam.” Chris snapped back.

“Here we go again,” I said, looking at my wall of canvases as if they were a group of friends who understood my confusion, “I can’t even believe we’re doing this again.”

“HERE WE GO AGAIN?” Chris mimicked me, raising his voice. “Sam, you barely even talk to me, let alone look at me, you never touch me anymore, we haven’t had sex in like a month. . .”

“It hasn’t been a month, Chris, we had sex the other day—” I corrected him, calmly.

“Last week!” Chris yelled back.

“Okay, right, exactly—that clearly means it hasn't been a month.” I said, sarcastically, fiddling with my iPod, pausing the music, trying to remain calm.

“Look, Babe,” I said, trying to explain my way out of this, “I can see that you’re upset, and I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, but I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve committed to this, and I have to work. I have a month and a half to finish FIFTEEN PAINTINGS, minimum, Chris, and it honestly feels like you’re just trying to sabotage me at this point—if you were a supportive husband, you’d be encouraging me to work but instead you’re crying about not getting fucked enough!” I finished, in a tone I didn’t start with.

“Oh, right, now I’m not encouraging you, Sam, right? WHO HELPED YOU TURN THIS GARAGE INTO A STUDIO??!” Chris yelled, arms flailing and pointing around the garage, “IF I WAS TRYING TO SABOTAGE YOU, WHY WOULD I HAVE HELPED YOU?”

I took a deep breath, but inside, I was already spiraling. The moment he raised his voice, something primal kicked in—I raised mine too. And just like that, we were yelling over each other, screaming, red-faced, at the same time, neither of us really heard, much less understood. Neither felt seen, nothing repaired or resolved. It was just noise—two people desperate to be heard, and all of it a pointless, exhausting waste of time.

“Yes,” I said, calmly, taking in a deep breath, “you helped me, but now you are not helping me, now you are yelling at me and fighting with me in this studio, killing my peace, and making it impossible for me to work! Did you ONLY help me to get something in return? What, Chris, do you want to go fuck right now? Will that make you happy? Then can I work in peace ON MY PIECE?! Do I have to pay my dues first, to be able to spend time working?” I screamed.

“Whatever, Sam.” Chris said, and he walked out, leaving the door open behind him.

I was fuming now. Chris had this infuriating way of lighting the match and then walking away, leaving me alone in the blaze of my own rage. I paced the room, fighting the urge to tear everything off the walls I’d just made my own, to sweep the tables clean and destroy the studio I’d worked so hard to build.

I wanted to rip his fucking head off.
I wanted to kick him so hard he’d never use that smug dick again.
I wanted to shove him into the pool with the cover still on and watch him panic for air.

Okay—maybe that one went too far.

The truth is, I just wanted peace. I wanted support. Encouragement. A little pride in what I was trying to do. Not jealousy. Not resentment. Not accusations. I just wanted to work.

I slammed the door and locked it so he couldn’t barge back in. Then I cranked up the music—loud enough to drown out everything, especially him and his voice in my head. It was only 11 p.m.—plenty of time left to work, I thought, and with the amount of rage pulsing through me right now, I just might paint a masterpiece tonight.

I opened a can of scarlet red and shoved my large paintbrush in it aggressively and messily started swinging my arm, paintbrush in hand, marking all over the canvas, scream-singing to Tori Amos while creating a bloodbath of red fury.

I painted until I was out of breath. I sang and screamed until I cried. I fell to the floor, kneeling in tears, head down in fetal position, arms reached out to the sides, paint brush in one hand, paint can in the other. Red everywhere. I was spent.

Eventually, I rolled onto my side, then onto my back, lying on the drop cloth, covered in red—emotionally wrecked, but strangely lighter. The singing, the painting. . .it had turned cathartic.

I stayed there, staring at the ceiling, watching the fan we hung spin through watery eyes, as two more songs played. Tears slipped down the sides of my face, pooling in my ears before drying up completely.

I finally sat up and looked at my work—Raw Emotion.That’s what I’ll call it, I thought, Wait, that’s too literal, I thought, Massacre. . .No, that’s too obvious. I stared at it for a bit longer wondering if I should add any other colors, but I wasn’t ready for that yet. It was a purge and needed to sit.

“I’ll just call this one CHRIS,” I said out loud, satisfied with the title—for now.

It certainly wasn’t a masterpiece—and wasn’t sure if I’d come back to it later, maybe add more, maybe not.

But in this moment, my first painting was done. And so was I.

Everything She Never Had is a work of fiction, inspired by some facts and some true events, based lightly on the timeline of my life. All names have been changed. Chapters are released once a week (Thursdays, usually) and (most) are available to read for free for up to two weeks before they are locked and only available to paying subscribers. 💌

• Read: Chapter 1

• Read: Chapter 2

• Read: Chapter 3

• Read: Chapter 4

• Read: Chapter 5

• Read: Chapter 6

• Read: Chapter 7

• Read: Chapter 8

• Read: Chapter 9

• Read: Chapter 10

• Read: Chapter 11

• Read: Chapter 12

• Read All Chapters Here