Part 1: Moving Forward
They ordered pizza—cheap pizza from the place down the street, not the artisanal kind Charlotte used to eat. They sat on the floor of Mateo's studio, eating straight from the box, and talked about everything except the paintings.
Charlotte told him about her new job starting Monday. About how nervous she was to be a gallery assistant when three months ago she'd been on gallery boards.
Mateo told her about the commission Morrison Gallery wanted him to do—a large piece for a hotel lobby in downtown LA. Good money, but he wasn't sure if it was the kind of work he wanted to do.
"You don't have to take every opportunity," Charlotte said. "You can choose what feels right."
"That's easy to say when you have options."
"I don't have options. I have a job that pays $18 an hour and an apartment I can afford for six more months."
"You have your family. If things really got bad—"
"No." Charlotte's voice was firm. "I don't. I made my choice. They made theirs."
Mateo looked at her. "What happened?"
Charlotte told him about her mother's call. The ultimatum disguised as concern. The final line: don't expect us to pick up the pieces.
"Shit," Mateo said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's clarifying, actually. Now I know there's no safety net. This is it."
"Is that scary?"
"Terrifying. But also..." Charlotte smiled. "Also kind of freeing. I can't fail back into my old life because that door is closed. So I just have to make this life work."
Mateo reached for her hand. "We'll figure it out."
"We?"
"If you want there to be a we."
"I do. But Mateo—" She squeezed his hand. "We have to take this slow. Really slow. Because if this falls apart, it can't be because we rushed. It can't be because you were painting fantasy and I was playing rebellion. It has to be real."
"Agreed."
"Which means no more paintings of us until we actually know what us is."
He smiled. "Deal. I'll paint other things. There's this bodega owner down the street who has the most expressive face. I've been wanting to ask if I can paint him."
"That sounds perfect."
They finished the pizza. Outside, the afternoon light was fading to gold. Through the single window, Charlotte could see Silver Lake stretching below, the reservoir glinting in the distance.
"Can I show you something?" Mateo asked.
"Sure."
He pulled out a sketchbook from under a pile of art books. "These aren't paintings. Just sketches. Studies."
Charlotte opened it. Page after page of drawings—hands, faces, street corners, coffee cups. All the small, ordinary things that made up life.
Then she turned to a page that made her breath catch.
It was a sketch of a woman's hands kneading dough. Simple, rough, but full of love.
"You saw Maria's painting," she said.
"At your apartment. When I came over that night, I saw it on your bedroom wall."
"And you drew this?"
"I wanted to understand what you saw in it. What made you buy it." He pointed at the sketch. "It's not technically perfect. The proportions are a little off. But there's something true about it. That's what Henri taught me to look for. Truth over perfection."
Charlotte closed the sketchbook, set it down carefully. Then she leaned over and kissed him.
It was a soft kiss, grateful and tentative and real.
"Thank you," she said when they pulled apart.
"For what?"
"For trying. For listening. For being willing to paint something other than us."
"Thank you for calling me out. I needed to hear it."
They sat there as the light faded, neither wanting to leave, both knowing Charlotte eventually would have to.
Part 2: Goodbye
Charlotte's POV — 6:47 PM
Charlotte stood at Mateo's door, jacket on, keys in hand.
"I should go," she said.
"You should."
Neither of them moved.
"Mateo?"
"Yeah?"
"Today was hard. The conversation about the paintings. But I'm glad we had it."
"Me too."
"Because if we're doing this—really doing this—we have to be able to say the uncomfortable things."
"Agreed." He touched her face. "Drive safe?"
"Always."
She kissed him one more time, then made herself walk down the stairs before she could change her mind and stay.
In her car, she sat for a moment, processing.
The paintings had bothered her more than she wanted to admit. Not because they weren't beautiful—they were. But because they represented something that scared her: the idea that Mateo might be falling in love with a version of her he was creating, not the actual messy person she was becoming.
And maybe that's what had happened three years ago. Two people falling in love with ideas of each other, not the reality.
This time had to be different.
Her phone buzzed. But it wasn't Mateo—it was an unknown number. She almost didn't answer, then decided to.
"Hello?"
"Charlotte? It's Catherine Sterling."
Charlotte sat up straighter. "Catherine. Hi."
"I hope I'm not calling at a bad time. I wanted to check in. See how you're settling in."
"I'm... good. I start at the gallery Monday."
"I heard. West LA Contemporary. Good place to start." A pause. "Listen, I'm calling because I have a proposition for you."
"What kind of proposition?"
"How would you feel about curating a small show? Nothing major—just a spotlight exhibition at my gallery. Featuring emerging artists from underrepresented communities."
Charlotte's heart started racing. "Catherine, I don't have experience—"
"You have taste. You have connections. And you have something most curators don't—you understand what it's like to be outside looking in." Catherine's voice was warm. "Think about it. I'm not asking for an answer tonight. But Charlotte? I believe in you. Even if your mother doesn't."
After they hung up, Charlotte sat in her car, staring at her steering wheel.
A curatorial opportunity. Her first real chance to prove she was more than just a Morgan daughter playing at independence.
But also: more responsibility. More visibility. More chances to fail.
She thought about Mateo upstairs in his studio, probably already sketching the bodega owner or the street corner or whatever caught his eye.
Learning to paint truth instead of fantasy.
Maybe she needed to learn the same thing.
Mateo's POV — 7:15 PM
After Charlotte left, Mateo stood in front of the "Learning to Be With Someone" series.
She was right. He'd been doing the same thing, just with better technique. Turning her into subject, into content, into something he could control and understand through paint.
But people weren't paintings. They were messy and complicated and they didn't hold still.
He picked up his phone, texted Sophie:
She called me out on the new paintings.
Sophie: Good. You needed it.
Mateo: I'm turning them all around. Not showing them to anyone.
Sophie: Even better. Now paint something that isn't her.
Mateo: Already planning to.
Sophie: Proud of you, idiot.
Mateo smiled, set down his phone, and picked up his sketchbook.
The bodega owner. The street corner. The ordinary truth of life.
That's what Henri had taught him. That's what made art matter.
He could paint Charlotte eventually—maybe. When they knew each other. When he could see her clearly, not through the haze of hope and fear.
But for now, he'd paint everything else.
And learn to be with her without needing to capture her.