Updated Mar 21, 2026 • ~8 min read
JAX – THREE DAYS TO DECIDE
Marco finds me staring at my laptop.
“What’s wrong?”
“Summer emailed. She wants to feature my work in her exhibition.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“Her. Us. Everything.”
“Jax, separate the art from the personal. Is this good for your career?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it. You don’t have to forgive her to work with her professionally.”
He makes it sound simple.
It’s not.
SUMMER – WAITING
Three days pass like three years.
No response from Jax.
He’s going to say no.
Of course he is.
Why would he want to work with me?
I start looking for other artists.
Then my phone pings.
Email from Jax.
I’m afraid to open it.
Finally, I do.
I’m in. But we keep it professional. This is about art, not us.
Relief floods through me.
Agreed. Thank you.
JAX – FIRST MEETING
We meet at the gallery.
Summer’s already there. Setting up.
She looks nervous.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
Awkward silence.
“Thank you for doing this,” she says.
“It’s a good opportunity.”
“Right. Yes. Opportunity.”
More silence.
Summer pulls out a folder. “I was thinking we could feature your portrait work. The tattoos that tell stories. Maybe eight to ten pieces?”
I look through her notes.
She’s done her research.
Knows my work.
Understands it.
“These are good choices,” I admit.
“I’ve always loved your work. The way you capture emotion.”
“Summer—”
“Sorry. Professional. Right.”
We spend two hours planning.
It’s surprisingly easy.
When we’re focused on art, the awkwardness fades.
She’s smart. Creative. Passionate.
I remember why I fell for her.
Then I remember why we ended.
“I should go,” I say.
“Okay. Same time next week?”
“Yeah.”
I leave.
Confused.
SUMMER
He came.
He’s working with me.
It’s professional.
Distant.
But it’s something.
I text Dr. Patel: Had first meeting with Jax. It went okay.
DR. PATEL: How do you feel?
SUMMER: Hopeful. Sad. Confused.
DR. PATEL: That’s normal. Focus on the work. Let the rest unfold naturally.
Easy for her to say.
THEO – NINE MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
I’m on a date.
Her name is Simone. She’s a lawyer. Smart. Funny.
We met through work.
“Tell me about yourself,” she says.
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to share.”
I consider this.
“I was engaged. It didn’t work out. I’m still working through it.”
“Recently?”
“Nine months ago.”
“What happened?”
“She was cheating. For two years. With someone else.”
Simone winces. “That’s rough.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you over it?”
Am I?
“I think so. My therapist says I’m making progress.”
“You’re in therapy. That’s good. Shows self-awareness.”
“I’m trying.”
She smiles. “That’s all any of us can do.”
The date continues.
It’s nice.
Not sparks.
But nice.
JAX – SECOND MEETING, ONE WEEK LATER
Summer’s chosen the photos to display.
She’s printed them. Huge. Beautiful.
“These are incredible,” she says, staring at my work.
“Thanks.”
“This one.” She points to a phoenix on someone’s back. “Tell me the story.”
“Client was coming out of an abusive relationship. Wanted something to symbolize rebirth.”
“It’s powerful.”
“That’s the point.”
She looks at me. “You’re really talented, Jax.”
“I know.”
She laughs. “Still confident.”
“Should I not be?”
“No. It’s good. I always loved that about you.”
The word “loved” hangs in the air.
“Summer—”
“Sorry. Professional.”
But the damage is done.
The past is in the room now.
“Why did you really ask me to be in this exhibition?” I ask.
“Because your work fits the theme.”
“That’s it?”
She hesitates.
“No. I also… I wanted to see you. To work with you. To show you that I’m different now.”
“Different how?”
“Honest. Real. Not hiding anymore.”
“And you think working together proves that?”
“I think it’s a start.”
I should leave.
Walk away.
Protect myself.
But I don’t.
“Tell me one true thing,” I say. “Something you never told me before.”
She thinks.
“I was going to leave Theo the day before he found out. I had an email drafted. An apology prepared. I was coming to you to confess everything and beg you to give me a chance.”
“But he found out first.”
“Yes.”
“So I’ll never know if you actually would have gone through with it.”
“No. You won’t. I don’t even know. But I want to believe I would have.”
It’s honest.
Painfully honest.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“Okay. We’ll keep working together. Professionally. But Summer?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t lie to me again. Even small lies. I can’t do that.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
I want to believe her.
But trust isn’t built on promises.
It’s built on time.
SUMMER – THAT NIGHT
Rose notices I’m happier.
“You’re smiling. What happened?”
“I’m working with Jax on the exhibition.”
“And?”
“And it’s nice. Hard. But nice.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know. He’s being professional. I don’t want to push.”
“Summer, you spent two years lying. Don’t waste more time hiding your feelings.”
“What if he rejects me?”
“Then you’ll survive. But at least you’ll know.”
She’s right.
But I’m terrified.
JAX – THREE WEEKS LATER
We’re at the gallery late.
Hanging the final pieces.
Summer’s on a ladder. Adjusting a frame.
“Left or right?” she asks.
“Left. No, right. Actually, left.”
She laughs. “Make up your mind.”
“Left. Final answer.”
She shifts it.
Steps down.
Trips on the last step.
I catch her.
Our faces are inches apart.
Time stops.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome.”
We’re still holding each other.
She smells the same. Vanilla and paint.
I should let go.
I don’t.
“Jax,” she breathes.
“Yeah?”
“I miss you.”
“Summer—”
“I know. Professional. I’m sorry. I just… I needed to say it.”
I let her go.
Step back.
“I miss you too.”
The admission surprises us both.
“You do?”
“Yeah. But missing you doesn’t change what happened.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because I can’t just forget two years of lies, Summer. I can’t just—”
“I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking you to see that I’m different. That I’ve changed.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But words aren’t enough anymore.”
She nods.
“Okay. I’ll prove it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. But I will.”
SUMMER – THE NEXT DAY
I call my mother.
She doesn’t answer.
I leave a voicemail.
“Mom. It’s Summer. I know you don’t want to talk to me. But I need to say this.”
I take a breath.
“I’m sorry for embarrassing you. For going against the family. For not being the perfect daughter you wanted.”
“But I’m not sorry for choosing my own life. For being honest about who I am. For refusing to marry someone I didn’t love.”
“You tried to make me into something I’m not. And instead of standing up to you, I lied. I hurt people. I became someone I hated.”
“That’s on me. Not you. But also… it’s on you too. For making love conditional. For using me as a business asset.”
“I’m done apologizing for existing. I’m done living for your approval.”
“If you ever want to know the real me, I’m here. But I won’t be the fake version anymore.”
I hang up.
Hands shaking.
I just set a boundary with my mother.
For the first time in my life.
Dr. Patel will be proud.
JAX – TWO DAYS LATER
Rose texts me.
ROSE: Summer called our parents. Set boundaries. I’m so proud of her.
JAX: Good for her.
ROSE: She’s really changing, Jax. For real this time.
JAX: I hope so.
ROSE: Give her a chance. Please.
JAX: I’m working with her. That’s something.
ROSE: It’s a start.
Maybe.
Or maybe I’m setting myself up to get hurt again.
SUMMER – EXHIBITION OPENING, TEN MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
The gallery is packed.
People are everywhere. Looking at art. Drinking wine. Talking.
Jax’s pieces are the centerpiece.
Everyone loves them.
“Who’s the artist?” someone asks.
“Jaxon Torres. He’s a tattoo artist in Brooklyn.”
“These are incredible. Is he here?”
“Yes. Over there.”
I point to Jax. He’s talking to a collector.
Smiling.
He looks happy.
Janet approaches. “This is a huge success. Well done, Summer.”
“Thank you.”
“That tattoo artist—he’s getting a lot of attention. Three people have asked about buying prints.”
“That’s amazing.”
I watch Jax from across the room.
He catches my eye.
Smiles.
A real smile.
Progress.
Small.
But real.
JAX
The exhibition is incredible.
My work is being taken seriously.
People want to buy it. Feature it. Commission me.
This could change everything.
And it’s because of Summer.
She believed in my art when no one else did.
She gave me this opportunity.
Even after everything.
I find her at the end of the night.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“This. All of it. You didn’t have to feature me.”
“Your work is incredible. It deserves to be seen.”
“Still. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stand there.
The gallery emptying around us.
“Summer?”
“Yeah?”
“Want to get coffee? Talk?”
Her eyes widen.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just talk. No expectations. But I think… maybe we should talk.”
“I’d like that.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
She smiles.
And for the first time in ten months…
I feel hope.
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