CHAPTER 7

Relationships are not my thing, but at least, when that part of my life existed, they were predictable.

My pattern was easy to spot, and it was comforting to have that kind of foresight about my erratic love life.

Before Lukas, I would start things when I'm manic, offering and receiving the best sex anyone has ever had, making promises of forever and ever. Then, I would end things when I'm low, or they would leave because it got too depressing to be around me.

I would ghost my would-be soulmates in my in-between moments because when I'm neither high nor low and I don't know who I am anymore and why I even exist – in those in-between moments – I'm just numb. There's nothing but the anticipation of the next dip or peak, and so the idea of nurturing or cutting off a relationship never makes it onto the list of important things to do.

Anyway, I don't know why I'm thinking about relationships and my non-existent love life right now. I've been celibate for three years, and it's been just fine. I've long since accepted that I won't have a happily married life, like David. There's no soulmate out there looking for me. People don't choose people like me for the forever things. Not being wanted sucks, but not that much when you accept it.

I cast a backward glance at the gates from which I'd just exited. My mood is beginning to lift. I'm in-between. I don't know when the rollercoaster in my brain will begin to climb into mania.

The man inside that house . . . he feels like, I don't know, me? I almost wanted to tell him to water his plant and maybe then, he'd feel better.

Turning the ignition, I ease the company-owned Ford Focus into the street. What the fuck am I talking about? Maybe he'd feel better? I don't know this man, and if we were both hanging from the edge of a twenty-story building, I would definitely not try to save him. But he looked so weighed down. Like me. Maybe he's a nutcase too. Takes one to know one and all that.

Traffic is easy and the ride back to the gallery is quick. I park the vehicle and enter through the back door to leave the car keys for Shawn. He's taking a painting to Long Island later this afternoon. When I check my phone, I'm greeted by a string of messages left by my mother. They all say the same thing in twenty different ways: Please don't kill yourself. Please just . . . stop. I leave her on read since she knows I'm not dead. I don't have the energy to deal with my mother's anxiety.

"Levi, that you?" Daniel's voice carries across the gallery floor.

"Uh, yeah," I call back, making my way to his office on the left. I poke my head through the door. "Hey, you working today?"

"Yeah, a little bit. C'mon in."

I take the chair opposite Daniel. A sturdy desk separates us. He leans back in his chair with a grin on his face. It's the type of smile that makes you think you did something wrong, but no one's mad about it. I frown, but the corner of my mouth ticks up. "What?" I ask with a nervous chuckle.

"I always knew you were my good luck charm." More smiles.

I laugh. "What are you talking about, Daniel?"

"Remember how I told you your art is your anchor?"

I nod. He tells me often that my art can help me cope, and if all else fails at least I have my art. "What's all this about, Daniel?" I ask, curious now.

"From that very first time I saw your sketches, I knew you were something special. There was always a depth of human darkness in the work you've shown me over the years. So honest and pure in the things that haunt us," he says.

Daniel has some idea about the part of me that creates the kind of art he's describing. He gets my mental situation more than most people. He gets me enough to not have fired me every time I couldn't get myself out of bed, or when I asked to work in the back and not with the gallery visitors when my low was especially dangerous, or when I emailed him my resignation letter for the tenth time after deciding I wanted to move across the country to start my life all over again.

The last time I resigned, about two years ago, I was manic, and I became obsessed with a city called Lucas in Kansas after watching a video online. I'd decided I would leave New York for a quiet prairie life out in the country. Also, I thought it was hilarious that I would be starting my new quiet life in a place that had the same name as my mania-loving ex.

Daniel waited out my episode, checked on me periodically, and took me back when I got stable.

What he doesn't know is how hard it is to face the demons when I'm in a manic enough state to create those things that haunt us.

Those demons chase me, hot on my heels, urging me forward and upward even when I'm exhausted and begging for it to stop. And when I'm begging for it to stop, I'm also hoping it doesn't. Because I know when I fall, there'll be no one to catch me but the same demons who chased me all the way up in the first place, and then dropped me without warning and without a safety net.

The worst part? Those demons are not some malevolent creatures from hell. They're just the different faces of me. They are all me, chasing me up to the highest high, then dropping me to the lowest low, and screaming those unbearable screams inside my head.

It's not always so dramatic, but sometimes, it is.

"What's this all about, Daniel?" I ask, my palms tingling. My mood has continued to lift gradually, but this feels like another fall is coming. I can't trust what I'm feeling. Should I be happy or worried about whatever has gotten Daniel so cryptic and philosophical?

"Hayden Ashford," he says.

I offer him a blank stare.

"You've never heard of Hayden Ashford?" And before I can answer, he says, "Of course not. You're not the type to get involved in celebrity drama."

Celebrity drama?

Daniel clasps his hands in front of him on the desk. "Levi, the man who came in here yesterday, and whose house you visited today is Hayden Ashford."

"Okay?"

"Hayden Ashford is an investment banker – to put it simply. His family runs basically the entire international banking system."

Maybe David would find Hayden Ashford inspiring, but I don't think I've ever been particularly interested in anyone's economic rank. Hayden Ashford"s ass, yes. Not how rich he might be.

Daniel seems to pick up on my disinterest. "He was engaged to Nicholas Harrington," he says, circling his wrist, as if trying to jog my memory. The only Nicholas I know is the one from first grade, and the class called him Saint Nicholas every December. Also, Hayden Ashford, who thinks my painting reminds him of all the things that cannot be had, is gay?

Daniel sighs. "Levi, you really need to get out there sometimes. Nicholas Harrington is – was – famous. They were some kind of dream couple on the internet. Love story of the century and everything."

"Oh, okay."

"Does anything impress you?" Daniel laughs.

Yes. When I'm manic, everything impresses me. "Was?" I ask.

"Yeah. They were engaged, but Nicholas died in a car accident a few months before the wedding a couple years ago. They were living in London when it happened."

"Oh. That sucks."

"Anyway, we've never had a client of this caliber walk through these doors. He called me a few minutes ago. You gave him my number?"

I shift in my seat. That was quick and I don't like where this is going. "Uh, yeah."

"He wanted to know who the artist was."

"Did you tell him?"

"No. I know how you are about these things, so I told him I'd get back to him."

"Thanks, Daniel." I'm not convinced I want this economically-privileged investment banker with the nice ass to know the identity of the person behind those crazy brush strokes.

"He also asked if the artist would be willing to produce more work with similar themes to A Place Not Found."

My heart pumps faster inside my chest. The place not found, for me, is my sanity. What is the place not found for Hayden Ashford, that he is asking for more?

"Levi, I know about your anxiety. Trust me, I know. But . . ." He looks at me with a fair amount of his own anxiety.

I feel sick. The kind of sick you feel when you've been set back onto solid ground after riding a rollercoaster, and your insides are about to become your outsides.

"Why don't you work with him, Levi? If you do, we all win. You get to pour yourself into your art, Hayden Ashford gets custom paintings, and the gallery gets some much-needed financial support. Not to mention the exposure if we can bag a client like Hayden Ashford. What do you say?"

When I say nothing, he adds, "At least let's tell him you're the artist."

"If I say no?"

Daniel sighs. "Nothing changes if you say no. But if you say yes, everything changes."

I'm curious about this spark of excitement trying to make itself known deep in my belly. It's a sickening thought, having that kind of attention on me, but . . . Hayden Ashford looks like me. A little lost. A little sad. It's like looking into a fuzzy mirror.

"I'll think about it," I say carefully.

Daniel beams. "Let me know by Wednesday. Or Friday, the latest."

The walk back home is significantly better today than it was yesterday. I'm glad I took my meds this morning.

I text Dr. Emily and Laura to let them know that I'm okay, and I'll see them soon. Both reassure me that they will remain committed to my well-being.

When I get home, my mother has, thankfully, left. I find that I have the energy to eat the chicken penne she's cooked for me. Sitting with the bowl and a sketchpad, I turn the concept of a place not found over in my head.

Hayden Ashford's face comes into my mind with astonishing ease, and by the time I'm done eating, I have a detailed sketch of a pair of dead brown eyes. I just can't tell if I've sketched Hayden Ashford's eyes, or mine.