Chapter 85

Chapter 85
Chapter 85: “Walls with Windows”

POV: Elizabeth

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I went back to the loft today.

The drive was quiet, which I didn’t mind. It gave me time to think. Not the kind of thinking that made my chest hurt or my throat feel tight. Just... simple thoughts. What color I wanted the walls to be. If the sun came in stronger in the morning or the afternoon. Where I might hang a shelf.

I parked in the same spot as before, right outside the big glass doors. They’d already installed the security system. I punched in the code Jackson had picked. Our birthdays, combined.

Inside, the air still smelled new, like wood and something faintly chemical. My sketchpad was in my bag. I pulled it out, found a pencil stub at the bottom, and started drawing.

Not anything perfect. Just little lines and shapes. A chair near the corner window, one that faced east. An easel set near the back, where the light didn’t glare too hard. A low shelf with rows of paint, half-organized and messy the way I like it. On the far wall, I imagined a corkboard filled with test swatches and color scraps and photos I hadn’t taken yet.

In one corner, I scribbled the outline of a worn-in armchair. The kind Jackson might fall asleep in while I painted. Maybe with a book in his hand or a coffee he forgot to drink.

That’s when I realized something strange.

I was smiling.

I didn’t even mean to. It just happened.

I sat on the floor for a while after that. My legs folded under me, pencil tapping against my knee. I wasn’t planning anything big. I wasn’t rushing. I was just... allowing myself to want something.

Wanting used to feel dangerous. Now it felt like air.

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By the time I got home, the sky was starting to dim.

The hallway was quiet. I dropped my keys in the bowl and set my sketchpad on the console table. I didn’t call out. I could hear soft breathing, slow and steady, from the living room.

I padded in barefoot.

There he was.

Jackson.

Asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his chest, the other tucked under the throw pillow. A parenting book rested on top of him, half-open, like it had just slipped from his hands.

I didn’t move right away.

I just stood there and watched him.

He looked... calm. Like the world outside didn’t matter. Like he could stay right there forever and be fine.

And me? I stood with my arms folded, heart softening in my chest, wondering how this became my life. How someone who had always been made to feel like the outsider, the burden, the second-best... could come home to something like this.

I sat down at the edge of the couch, careful not to wake him.

He stirred anyway, eyes blinking open slowly. “Hey,” he said, voice thick with sleep.

“Hey,” I whispered back.

He blinked again, then sat up straighter, brushing the book aside. “Sorry. I meant to wait for you.”

“You were reading.”

He looked down at the book, then scratched the back of his head. “Trying to. Some of these chapters are intense.”

I smiled. “The baby won’t mind if you skip a few.”

He reached for my hand, laced his fingers through mine. “Where’d you go today?”

“The loft.”

His eyes lit up a little. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “I brought my sketchpad.”

His thumb traced the back of my hand. “Draw anything good?”

I shrugged. “A few messy lines. A chair. A shelf. You.”

“Me?”

“You were in the chair,” I said. “Reading.”

He let out a low laugh. “Sounds accurate.”

“It felt good,” I said quietly. “To imagine it. To want it.”

Jackson leaned closer, brushing a kiss against my cheek. “You can want whatever you want, Liz. This space, this life, it’s yours too.”

For a moment, we sat in silence.

Then he added, “You didn’t check your phone, did you?”

My brows pulled together. “Why?”

“There’s another post,” he muttered. “Pearl.”

Of course.

I pulled my phone out and scrolled. There it was. A new photo of us, me and Pearl. From the party. Cropped to look cozy. Captioned: Sisters, always. Rebuilding stronger than ever.

I didn’t even hesitate. I opened the menu and deleted the tag. Then I unfollowed her again.

“She’s trying to play a game,” I said, setting my phone down. “Pretending to make peace in front of people so she can control the story.”

“Do you want me to say something?” Jackson asked.

“No,” I said simply. “I don’t want to give her my energy.”

He looked at me, eyes searching. “Are you okay?”

“I’m done trying to prove I’m good enough for people who decided I wasn’t before I even had a chance.”

I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even feel the need to explain.

I just stood up, picked up my sketchpad again, and walked over to my little paint corner in the den. I turned on the speaker, clicked on one of my playlists, and turned up the volume just enough to fill the air.

Jackson watched me for a minute. Then he stood too, stretched, and walked over to the kitchen to start dinner.

Neither of us said anything more about Pearl.

We didn’t need to.

I laid the sketchpad on the table and picked up a brush. My strokes were light. Not perfect. But steady. The colors blended in uneven lines, soft edges, messy spots. It wasn’t meant to be finished. It just needed to begin.

Jackson brought me a glass of juice sometime in the middle. I didn’t stop painting. I just smiled and took a sip.

And maybe that was enough for now.

Maybe for once in my life, not everything had to be a battle.

Maybe I could just... be.