To the point of overprotection.
That’s part of the reason why I wanted to leave New York and join Nikolai here. Maya also needed to do her thing without being supervised every step of the way.
“I’m fine, Dad. I’m feeling so much better now that I’ve talked to you guys.”
“We love you, Mia,” Mom says.
“I love you, too,” I sign, and as I hang up, I catch a glimpse of my father kissing the top of her head.
I’ve always admired the fierce way they love and protect each other. They’re a power couple and clash sometimes, but they still have each other’s backs. Their relationship is one of my favorite memories from home.
As the screen goes black, the sense of safety that I got from talking to my parents vanishes.
The lights in the room are still on, but I can feel the darkness creeping in from the corners, about to suffocate me.
I grab my pillow and phone and sprint to my sister’s room.
I fling her door open and flick on the light.
“Ugh, what?” Maya groans from the bed and covers her head.
I go to her side and she removes her glittery eye mask, grumbling. “Don’t mess with my beauty sleep or I will cut a bitch…” she trails off upon seeing what must look like terror on my face.
She doesn’t probe or push. She doesn’t even ask.
Maya and I share a special relationship and she must feel the unease that’s gripping me by the throat.
My sister pulls the cover back and taps the spot beside her. I don’t think twice as I dive in next to her.
“Thank you,” I sign.
“There’s no thanks needed between us, idiot. Go to sleep. I’m here.”
She pats my shoulder in a soothing rhythm like a mother who’s putting her child to sleep. When I close my eyes, I can feel her sliding her sleep mask back on.
Unlike me, Maya can only sleep when it’s pitch-black, but she doesn’t comment on the strong light I blazed in her room or how I invaded her space.
Whenever I need an anchor, she’s there for me without question.
I’m drifting to sleep myself when my phone vibrates.
After making sure Maya is out, I pull it out and stare at the text.
Unknown Number: Asleep?
Who…？
My phone vibrates again.
Unknown Number: You can’t be asleep after you woke this thing in me. Come out. I need to recreate the scene from tonight.
My fingers shake around the phone. Landon?
How did he get my number? More importantly, what the hell is he still doing up past two in the morning?
My phone vibrates again and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Unknown Number: On second thought, sleep while you can. You have a very chaotic life ahead of you and you need all the energy you can get, muse.
8
LANDON
The idea of a muse has often eluded me.
I understand the concept and the general consensus, but the overrated obsession of artists with the existence of a muse has always left me in a rare state of bewilderment.
And that’s coming from someone who used sand to sculpt at the age of two. It was a female devil with a long, pointy tail, inspired by a painting in Grandpa’s house. I recall that first time I created a sculpture and the raw feeling of the wet sand slithering between my small fingers.
I also recall the unperturbed emotions that ran through me when I watched that she-devil get washed away by a wave.
It was only later that I found out my apathetic reaction to the destruction of my first creation wasn’t the norm and that I was, in fact, the definition of neurodivergent.
My steady relationship with art in general, and sculpting in particular, has been persistent throughout my twenty-three years of life. My world-renowned artist mother calls it a natural talent. The world labels it as genius genes.
For me, it’s been the sole method I could use to cope with my beast, his demon friends, and dull humanity without resorting to an extreme. Like transforming someone into stone, for instance.
Every artist has a muse—or so they say.
Since I’m a very important—if not the most important—member of a family of artists, I have come to the realization that I don’t share Mum’s, Bran’s, or Glyn’s over-idolization of their imaginary friends.
In my mind, that’s what a muse is all about—an imaginary childhood friend whose constant chatter they couldn’t lose during adulthood, so they decided to give them a fancy name.
The idea of a muse has always been redundant, useless, and categorically ridiculous.
But since I’m a master of blending in and fitting societal expectations, whenever someone has asked me about my muse, I’ve said geniuses don’t talk about their muse, as if it’s some sort of MI6 intelligence.