5. Leyland

Leyland

TWO WEEKS LATER…

Recovery had been much harder than I thought it’d be.

“You should still be resting,” my mother chastised through the phone. “Not back at that studio where you lose track of time and end up in a ditch after working all night.”

I sighed while staring at the blank canvas in front of me.

“I’m not working too hard,” I mumbled, frustrated that I hadn’t been working at all. “And I didn’t drive myself, DJ did.”

She huffed, and I knew what would come next.

“Duke Johnson is just as irresponsible as you are,” my mother scolded. “You two have always enabled each other’s worst habits. I swear, if it wasn’t for me and your father keeping an eye on you...”

I tuned out her lecture, having heard variations of it many times before. My gaze drifted to the window, where the Austin skyline glittered in the late afternoon sun. The city I’d known and loved my whole life suddenly felt alien to me, as if I was seeing it through a stranger’s eyes.

“Are you even listening to me, Leyland?”

Her sharp tone snapped me back to attention.

“Yes, Mom,” I sighed. “I promise I’m being careful. I just... needed to get out of the house. To try and paint again.”

Her voice softened slightly. “I know, sweetheart. I worry about you. Are you sure you’re ready to be back at work?”

I glanced again at the blank canvas before me, feeling that twinge of frustration return. I wasn’t sure. Ever since leaving the hospital, I’d felt... off. Like, a part of me was missing. The world didn’t look the same—all the color had disappeared.

My usual creative flow had abandoned me too.

“I’m fine," I lied, not wanting to worry her further. “I’ll take it easy, I promise.”

After a few more minutes of reassurances, I finally managed to end the call and set my phone down with a sigh.

“Still no luck?” DJ’s voice came from behind me.

I turned to see my best friend and agent leaning against the doorframe, a look of concern on his face.

I shook my head.

“Nothing. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to paint.”

He walked over and picked up one of my brushes, twirling it between his fingers.

“Maybe you’re putting too much pressure on yourself,” he suggested gently. “You’ve been through a lot, man. It’s okay if it takes some time to get back into the swing of things.”

“Painting has always been an outlet, you know? And now, when I need it most, there’s nothing there.”

DJ set the brush down and turned to face me fully. “Is this about the dreams? The ones you had while you were in the coma?”

I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. He’d been my best friend for a long time, but even he might think I was losing it if I told him the full extent of what I’d experienced.

But... I needed someone else to talk to.

“Yeah,” I admitted finally. “They felt so real. I lived an entire life while I was under. And now that I’m awake, I feel like I’m mourning for something I never actually had.”

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful.

“That must be intense, man. No wonder you’re having trouble painting. You’re dealing with a whole different reality in your head.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me at his understanding.

“Exactly. And the worst part is... there was someone in those dreams. Someone who felt so real, so important to me. And now...”

“Now you’re trying to figure out how to live without them,” DJ finished.

“Her,” I corrected without thinking.

He was quiet for a moment, his brows furrowed in thought.

“Have you considered trying to find her? The woman from your dreams?”

I let out a bitter laugh.

“I already have. But she’s not... she’s not mine…” It physically hurt to say. “She’s engaged to another doctor at the hospital.”

His frowned deepened.

“Her name is Clementine Warren," I went on, needing to talk about her. "In my dreams, we were married. We had this whole life together. But in reality, she’s just the doctor who treated me after my accident… after I woke up. Her… fiancé treated me first.”

He whistled and grabbed a stool to sit.

“Did you talk to her about this? Maybe if you explain what happened, she might help you make sense of it all.”

“I told her enough and even though she looked intrigued, it made her uncomfortable. She was kind about it and suggested I talk to a therapist.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Look, Ley,” he started, leaning forward—elbow to knees. “I can’t pretend to understand exactly what you’re going through. But I do know that you can’t keep torturing yourself like this. You need to find a way to move forward.”

My phone rang just as I was about to respond and I glanced at the screen, eyeing the unknown number flashing across it.

Because the old one had been shattered in my accident and I had a bad habit of not backing it up, I lost all my contacts.

I thought about ignoring it, not in the mood for more well-wishes, but answered it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Graham, this is Mya Pillar from the Austin Visual Arts Association,” she said, jumping right in.

My interest piqued, I sat up a little straighter.

I’d joined the AVAA two years ago and had immersed myself in the culture. Before my accident, I agreed to teach a series of classes for their youth art program, which would've took place while I was in the coma.

“Yes, Ms. Pillar. How can I help you?” I asked, curious about why she was calling.

“The team and I hope you’re recovering well,” she said warmly. “I’m calling because we have an exciting opportunity we’d like to discuss with you. As you know, our annual charity gala is coming up in two months. We were hoping you might consider being a featured artist this year. I know it's a little last minute but everyone agreed we should ask anyway."

I blinked in surprise. The AVAA’s charity gala was one of the biggest events in Austin’s art scene. Being a featured artist would be a tremendous honor—and a massive boost to my career.

And… it was the exact place I’d met Clementine in my dreams.

“Wow, I’m... I’m flattered,” I managed to say. “That’s an incredible opportunity.”

But could I handle it?

I glanced at DJ and then my blank canvas, worried I might put too much pressure on myself but needing some kind of challenge to make me feel alive again.

“Your work speaks for itself,” she continued enthusiastically. “And we think you’d be perfect for this year’s theme.”

I cleared my throat and stood, a weird sensation in my chest making me antsy.

“And this year’s theme is...”

A partnership with St. Mercy Children’s Hospital.

“We’ve partnered with St. Mercy Children’s Hospital to help with their future expansion plans. You can present up to four pieces, and one will be chosen to hang in that new wing on consignment by a generous donor.”

I didn’t feel ready to jump back into the art scene, but for the chance to see Clementine again, I had to try my very fucking best.

“It’s an honor to be invited and I humbly accept,” I said, decision made.

She would be there, I was sure of it.