Sundays were reserved for my shame. They were my reset days. The day of the week when Cole’s influence led me to believe I could do better, that I could try again. Sunday was also the day I attempted to paint, but my hands shook so badly I could never manage to pick up the brush. I’d shut him out because I refused to let Franky know that without him I couldn’t find it in me to be a daisy. But he knew anyway, and it fucking hurt like hell.
