The Girl in the Painting Read online

  The Girl in the Painting

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2019, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781732170230

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Soundtrack

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks Excerpt

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Acknowledgments

  To those who “can’t even”: Guess what? You totally can.

  To Carl, the dog Monroe met at the airport: You are the goodest boy. We hope you’ve conquered your fear of escalators.

  To Love: You are, well…sometimes, you’re a bit of a bitch. Sorry, but it’s true…

  Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston ring any bells?

  How you could ever let them break up still boggles our minds.

  And don’t even get us started on Channing Tatum and Jenna Dewan…like, seriously?

  What were you thinking?

  But, despite all of that, we can’t deny you’re pretty damn amazing.

  You do, in fact, make the world go round.

  So, thank you for being so prevalent in our lives.

  And thank you for being the foundation of this book.

  The Girl in the Painting is a full-length stand-alone novel.

  At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks, one of our best-selling romantic comedy and sports romance novels.

  The Girl in the Painting concludes at around 90%.

  Prior to beginning your reading adventure, please prepare yourself to read a story that is unlike anything you’ve read before.

  Prepare to fall in love with love all over again.

  And get ready to fall in love with this story.

  Fast. Hard. Deep. Insane kind of love.

  Happy Reading!

  All our love,

  Max & Monroe

  “Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together? Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences.”

  —Unknown

  Blue Madonna—Børns

  Dust it Off—The Dø

  What Is And What Should Never Be—Led Zeppelin

  Tip of My Tongue—The Civil Wars

  Comptine d’un autre été: L’après-midi—Yann Tiersen

  Four Seasons—Vivaldi

  Sail Away—David Gray

  Unsteady—X Ambassadors

  Real Love—Tom Odell

  Brindo—Devendra Banhart

  Sweet Love—Ghinzu

  Ansel Bray, an artist known around the world for his tragic hiatus from the canvas.

  Ansel Bray, a broody, handsome man not known by me, at all.

  Long dark hair, blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. I’ve never met her, but her image is imprinted in my mind. An angel muse who inspires me to paint again.

  There is something about him. Something that spurs a need to be as close to him as possible. A need to find out why.

  There is something about her. Something that draws me in. Something that urges me to find out what her presence means.

  Why does the girl in his painting look so much like me?

  Who is this girl, and why can I see her so vividly?

  I shouldn’t fall in love with him.

  I shouldn’t fall in love at all.

  But fate plays her hand.

  But fate has other plans.

  The lines of my life will blur.

  The needs of my heart will change.

  What a beautiful mess we’ve made.

  Ansel

  I watch the way the brush swipes across the canvas, and it’s like my mind is directing my hand without me as my fingers move in soft, fluid strokes.

  Slowly and with precision, I add blues and purples and etch grayish hues into the color palette. Instinctively, my hand moves to the right spot, building a new picture that’s locked inside my mind, a visual that’s only released through brushstrokes and paint and silent poetry. It is a reflection of my own mind, the way I think and feel and see the world around me.

  This, painting—creating—is my home.

  My passion and my life.

  I look away from my work and move my eyes around my studio, taking in the order and chaos, the blank canvases, the finished paintings, anything and everything I can swallow up hungrily.

  God, it doesn’t get any better than this…

  This is living.

  But when I move my gaze back to the canvas, the brush disappears from my hands, and the colors of the painting fade away in a pixelated breeze.

  A gasping breath escapes my lungs and encourages my heart to follow its lead. It races inside my chest and vibrates its erratic rhythm against my rib cage.

  It was just a dream, Ansel.

  I blink my eyes open and, instead of the light of day filtering in through my pupils, darkness replaces everything.

  Fuck.

  Waking up is harsh when your dreams are better than reality.

  Sometimes, my dreams are so vivid I find myself forgetting my sight is gone. I’ll open my eyes and expect to see my bedroom, expect to see the sun peeking in through the windows, expect to find crumpled blankets over my body and the paintings on my walls.

  And then I remember.

  I remember the physical pain and the actual t
rauma of the accident, but mostly, I remember the moment I woke up to the heightened sounds of a dark abyss. The moment I knew my future would be bleak and empty.

  Every single fucking day, I wake up and choke on the grief of it all.

  I’m blind. And I have to come to terms with the fact that I’m a painter who can’t paint. An artist who can’t create. A man who can’t even see his own fucking dick hanging between his legs.

  It’s been nearly a year since I lost my sight, and a part of me wonders if, eventually, even my dreams will change to the unsatisfyingly bottomless pit of monochrome shadows.

  It would be both a blessing and a nightmare.

  Because it’s the dreams that keep me going.

  Yet, it’s also the dreams that tear me apart.

  Each foray into the unattainable makes the process of mourning start all over again. Truly, you don’t know what you’re missing until it’s gone.

  It’s a tortured process, but eventually, my grief becomes less acute, and I ease myself out of my bed, using only memory and sense of touch.

  The bathroom I can remember, but no longer see, sits just off my bedroom—a convenience I never fully understood until after the accident.

  While I piss, wash my hands and face, and brush my teeth, I visualize the stone tiles beneath my feet and remember the soft white hues of the walls. I picture the porcelain fixtures and the small gold-framed abstract painting that reflects itself in the mirror.

  And I visualize myself.

  My face, my hair, my jaw, my eyes. I know what they looked like a year ago, but that’s where it ends. Time has worn the lines and muddied the details of my features in ways I’ll never witness.

  I slip on reflective aviators over what’s left of my eyes, and by the time I make it into the kitchen, the sounds of the front door clicking open and my brother’s voice bellowing out from the entryway reach my ears.

  “Ansel!” he calls out. “You up, bro?”

  “In the kitchen,” I grumble as I attempt to make coffee without it turning into a disaster.

  The sink is two steps from the coffeepot.

  Ten seconds of the faucet running equals four cups of water, which equals two scoops of coffee.

  The can of Folger’s is one-hand’s width away from the coffeepot.

  At least, it should be Folger’s. Fuck if I know what the label actually says. I am the epitome of a blind taste tester.

  I follow the specific directions I’ve memorized and set the coffeemaker to brew by tapping the third button on the right.

  The sound of Bram’s footsteps gets louder as he approaches, changing subtly as he transitions from the wood of the front hall to the tiles of the kitchen. “Looks like you’re off to a good start this morning.”

  If I had eyes that worked, I’d sure as shit be rolling them at him.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother Bram.

  Hell, everyone loves Bram. He’s the fun-loving rock star with a killer voice and enough charming swagger to sell out stadiums.

  It’s the whole being blind thing I despise.

  “I told you you’d get this down.”

  Being blind and his holier-than-thou chipper attitude, that is.

  “Oh yeah, what used to take two minutes now only takes thirty,” I grumble. “At this rate, I think a decade or so from now, I might be able to make a fucking cup of coffee in under fifteen minutes.”

  My brother chuckles. Good God, he must be on uppers.

  The rustling of paper ends what could have been one hell of a bitter inner diatribe.

  “Did you get groceries?”

  “Just a few things I figured you needed.”

  Shit like this—other people helping me—is exactly what makes me feel pathetic.

  While I’ve learned how to do basic things for myself over the past twelve months, I still have to rely on people like Bram to get my fucking groceries. Every Tuesday, I give him a list, and he fulfills it. A list of things I deem necessary. What I don’t need are his overachieving assumptions about what I need.

  No way in hell my brother with his perfect life and perfect sight really knows what I need.

  “Eggs sound good?” he asks, and the urge to swipe my hand across the kitchen counter and hear everything crash to the ground is strong.

  “I don’t want any fucking eggs, Bram.”

  “Okay,” he responds, an emotional flatline. My mood has officially soured the sweetness out of his. “What about toast? Oatmeal?”

  He’s unwaveringly patient with me, and it only fuels my frustration.

  “Bram,” I say through clenched teeth, slamming my fists down onto the counter. “I can handle it. I might be fucking blind, but I’m not an invalid. There is shit I can do for myself.”

  “Fine,” he mutters. “Eat breakfast. Don’t eat breakfast. Burn the whole fucking place down for all I care.”

  His unexpected words spur a laugh from my throat. In the entirety of my suffering, I don’t think my sullen attitude has ever broken him. Unfortunately for Bram and everyone else in my life, the only satisfaction I get these days tends to stem from sarcastic verbal judo. His breakthrough serves solely as an opening for the start of this match. “If you keep acting like a mother hen, I might consider it.”

  “Get over yourself, you cranky fuck,” he says through a soft, mostly annoyed chuckle. “I’m just trying to help you out.”

  Help. Fuck, I hate that word.

  “That’s the thing, Bram.” I spit out my frustration. “I don’t need your goddamn help.”

  It’s a lie, we both know it, but that does nothing to soften the conviction with which I wish it weren’t.

  He sighs but, smartly, keeps his mouth shut. We’ve had our fair share of heated spats over the past year, and experience tells him there’s only enough room for one antagonist in this kitchen. As the owner in residence, I call dibs.

  “So, all issues with breakfast aside, are you planning on going into your studio this week?”

  What’s the point? It’s not like I’m going to paint…

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Why?”

  “Lucy’s been fielding quite a few calls from interested buyers, and I’m sure she’d love to discuss them with you.”

  She’d love to discuss them with me? Pretty sure he means my assistant would love to stop answering so many goddamn calls. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s even answering the phones without me there. Lucy Miller is about as prone to doing her job as my eyes are to see my fucking feet.

  Before the accident, I was in the studio every day. Now, it’s all I can do to force myself to go once a month. Clearly, going weeks on end without checking in on her has only impugned what little work ethic she had.

  Ironically, ever since the world found out I would never paint again, the value of my paintings has shot up exponentially. Morbid fascination at its finest.

  Last month, one of my paintings sold at auction for two million dollars.

  Created when I was twenty-one, it was one of the first paintings I ever leaned into with my entire soul. Full of movement and passion, the young boy and his bubbles embodied everything I felt at the time. I sold it to what I’d believed to be an impassioned buyer. Turns out, the only impassioned fool was me.

  The thought of someone selling one of my purest creations for monetary gain left a sour fucking taste in my mouth, and as a result, I’m starting to despise every single potential buyer. Do they love art? Or do they see an investment piece that, when turned over, will buy them a house they don’t need or a fucking Lamborghini they won’t drive?

  Art is meant to affect your heart, your mind, your goddamn soul.

  Not serve as a conduit for a bigger bank account.

  Bunch of greedy fucking bastards…

  “Who’s interested?”

  “Well…” Bram clears his throat. “Lyle Jacobs.”

  An NBA basketball player who wouldn’t know real art from his asshole.

  “Carly May.”

 
; A reality TV star who probably thinks Mona Lisa is a pop singer.

  “Jeff Simmons.”

  A pretentious billionaire who has more money than any one human being needs. He’s flashy and ostentatious, and he wouldn’t know true art if it smacked him across the fucking face.

  “Not interested.”

  “They’re offering a lot of money—”

  “It’s not about the money,” I mutter. “They and their money can go fuck themselves.”

  Bram sighs and laughs at the same time. “God, Ans, could you be any more of a dick?”

  “If I tried hard enough?” I shrug. “Probably.”

  Thankfully, Bram gets wise and drops the subject altogether.

  “Are you taking me to my appointment today?” I ask as I carefully pour myself a cup of coffee.

  Another pointless appointment where the doctor confirms what I already know all too fucking well. Yeah, Doc, I get it. I can’t see.

  “Yeah.”

  “You do realize it’s not until four, right?”

  “Also yes,” he says, stepping into my body, grabbing my hand, and directing the pot of coffee back to the machine I would have missed on my own. “But don’t worry, I have to leave to meet my band for a few hours, and then I’ll be back to get you around three.”

  “When are you going on tour again, Mom?” I tease halfheartedly. It’s either that or cry. Fucking hell, I hate what my life has become.

  “Not until summer, you ornery prick.”

  “I’ll start counting down the days.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  I am, I know. I really know.

  After a long commute across town, both Bram and I reach Dr. Smith’s Manhattan office right on time.

  A world-renowned eye surgeon, he’s one of the physicians who has been following my case since I lost my sight.

  The instant we step inside, the receptionist ushers us into a room and tells us the doctor is finishing up with a patient and will be in shortly.

  So, we sit and wait.

  And wait.

  And I quickly remember that a doctor’s version of shortly isn’t the same as the rest of us.