A hand touches my arm, and all the anger bubbling inside me shoots out. “What?”

I glare at Hunter then take a step back. Oh, heck, I had shoved myself way too close into his personal territory, as in my face was a centimeter from his.

“You don’t like getting pulled out of your trance,” he says. “I got it, and it’s filed away for future use.”

There are giggles around the room, and one quick scan confirms that I’ve got fans. With a heavy sigh, I put my brush on the easel and stretch my back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, but since I disturbed you, do you mind if we talk?”

“Sure.”

With a wave and a few words from Hunter, everyone moves on. “I’m going to have to shut this audience thing down soon, otherwise no one but you will get any work done.”

“I am sorry about snapping at you. I won’t lie—I can be hard to be pulled out, but I’m usually not so emotional, but...” I stare at the painting. “This one’s different.”

“What makes this one different?”

Because it’s my brother. “Just is.”

“You chose to leave out the star. Why?”

This thin veil that used to be a brick-and-mortar wall between me and any emotion connected with losing my brother wavers with the slightest breeze. If I wanted, the answers lie there behind the mist. All I have to do is reach for them and according to Mrs. Collins, those answers will help me keep Noah.

But there’s pain behind that curtain. Pain I’m not sure I want to tackle. Pain that, hours ago in the hotel room, came close to surfacing.

Like the canvas turned into poison, I slide back from it. The veil in my head fluctuates as I focus on the colors. “Just decided to go that way.”

“You’re not a pushover for anyone, are you? Not even the man who can open doors for your future.”

I’ve been wiping my hands on a towel and pause. “What did you say?”

“You. Not a pushover. How I like getting answers when I ask questions, and you don’t give them. Me offering you a future and you not caring.”

A smile spreads across my face. “I’m not a pushover.”

“Is it because your name is Echo that you’re repeating things?”

I laugh, not so much because he’s funny, but because the unthinkable happened. For years my parents, my therapists, my teachers, my friends...anyone...used my need to please to get whatever they desired. I lay down and died for anyone at any time and somewhere along the way, I found a backbone.

I did change this summer. I am different.

“I’m serious, Echo. When I ask questions, I want answers. It’s how this whole teacher/student relationship works.”

I get it, but... “Not with this one. This one is personal, and you know it.”

“They’re all personal,” he says.

“Some more than others. If you push me, I’ll answer, but I can’t promise the answers I give you on this one will be true.”

“Touché. We’re clear, then. Anything after this is on my terms.”

“I understand.”

“So the purpose of having this conversation...”

I’m nodding for him to continue though it’s hard to concentrate because I’m still reeling from the I’ve-changed moment.

“I like the idea of you taking business courses so I’m trying to work it out with your college to see if you can take them online while you study your art here. In fact, I like the idea so much I might implement the new plan for others next fall.”

That’s an awesome surprise. “Great!”

Hunter eyes me warily. “So that means you’re accepting?”

I bite the inside of my mouth. Noah and I are walking a tightrope, and I have no idea what’s going to happen to us. Maybe we’d work if I stayed in Kentucky. Maybe we’d fall apart if I stay here. But Noah’s right. The advice I gave Noah about himself is right. I need to decide for me. Noah and I will last if we truly love each other, but we’ll collapse if I do everything to please him. “Yes. I’m accepting.”

Hunter raises a brow. “Your boyfriend isn’t talking you out of it?”

My spine goes rigid. “My boyfriend supports me.” Then my stomach drops. I slapped him and pushed him away last night, then Noah broke into the gallery for me. He does support me...more than I can comprehend.

“Good,” he says. “By the way, for paperwork purposes, what’s your last name?”

Oh, crap. Just when things were starting to go well... There’s no stopping the train wreck now. “Emerson. My name is Echo Emerson.”

Noah

After five minutes of glaring at a statue of St. Therese the Little Flower, I rub my eyes and push past the red curtain and squeeze onto the cramped wooden bench. The divider that covered the small window between us slides open. Because of how we both sit and the dim lighting from above, I can only catch a glimpse of my uncle’s profile.

“In the name of the father, and the son and the holy spirit,” he says, and I cross myself out of a long ago ingrained habit and hear my mother tell me that I should kneel in the confessional.

One second.

Another.

“Well,” he urges.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been...” This is insane. “It’s been...” Four years since my last confession. Four years. My mother was pissed at me because I hadn’t been to confession. In middle school, I had already started to question my faith.

Another way I failed my mother, and I continue the tradition by failing Echo. I scratch the spot over my eyebrow. “I don’t believe in God, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Sorry to hear that, but for the record, He still believes in you.”

Bullshit answer. “Give me the story about my name.”

“Noah, I didn’t bring you in here to listen to your confession, though I would be more than happy to take it. I brought you in here because there’s another question you’re here to ask, and I made the assumption you’d like to have this discussion with an air of anonymity.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the question you have is one that you might not want an audience for.”

Uncomfortable, I bend forward and rest my hands on my knees. That tense rhythm that Echo continually harbors spreads into my veins. “Why did my mom leave?”

“And why are we aware of your existence when you didn’t know about us?”