Chapter 2 — Frustrations Unleashed

Callum

The rhythmic scrape of sandpaper against wood filled the spacious main room of the art center. Callum Hayes leaned over a worktable, smoothing the surface of an old bench he’d found discarded by the river. Its legs wobbled, held together by a precarious mix of an old nail and duct tape, but he liked it anyway. It reminded him of the art center itself—broken yet fixable. The vivid mural of his late mother smiled down from the far wall, her figure surrounded by swirling azure and gold strokes, a sunflower tucked behind her ear. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows caught on the brushstrokes, making the sunflower glow faintly, as though she were alive again in the paint. Normally, the space’s chaotic harmony soothed him, but today, it felt stifling.

The funding delay gnawed at the edges of his mind, a persistent buzz he couldn’t silence. Without it, the opening of the art center—a project he’d poured years of sweat and sacrifice into—was no longer a question of when but if. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, leaving a streak of fine sawdust near his temple. The wood beneath his fingers was nearly smooth, but he kept sanding, the motion more about distraction than progress. His mother always said art was about finding beauty in imperfection, but what beauty was there in a half-empty bank account? Could she have found art in a rejected grant or a missed deadline? He doubted it.

Grant Taylor entered quietly, his solid presence grounding the room like a weight on a swaying ship. Dressed in his usual polo shirt and khakis, he held a travel mug of coffee in one hand and his ever-present notebook in the other. The faint scent of ink and paper mingled with the sharper tang of varnish and sawdust.

“You’ve been sanding that thing for twenty minutes,” Grant said, his tone even, though humor danced in his eyes. “It’s smooth enough to land a plane on.”

Callum didn’t look up. “Maybe I need it smoother.”

Grant set the mug down with a deliberate clink. “Or maybe you need to stop pretending that bench is going to fix anything.”

The words hit harder than Callum expected, and he straightened, tossing the sandpaper onto the table with more force than necessary. “What am I supposed to do, then? Sit around twiddling my thumbs while some faceless bureaucrat at the bank decides whether or not my mother’s legacy is worth their precious time?”

“You could take a break,” Grant suggested calmly, flipping open his notebook. His pen hovered above the paper, poised to jot something down. “Get some fresh air. Clear your head before you say something to someone you’ll regret.”

“Too late for that,” Callum muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. The image of Isla Merrick flashed through his mind—her prim blouse perfectly ironed, her pale green eyes steady behind a pair of glasses that made her look annoyingly composed. He’d gone in hot, storming into that sterile, glass fortress like a hurricane, certain he’d find someone to blame. Instead, he’d found her: calm, methodical, and infuriatingly unflappable. Her clipped tone and carefully measured words had only fueled his frustration, but there had been something else too—a flicker of understanding when he’d spoken about his mother, as if she’d seen past the anger to the grief underneath. That was the part that lingered.

Grant’s pen scratched across the lined paper, pulling Callum back to the present. “You mean the bank manager? The one who probably filed a restraining order after you barged into her office?”

“No restraining order,” Callum replied, though his voice carried less conviction than he intended. “At least, not yet.”

Grant raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond, instead jotting something in his meticulous handwriting. Callum caught glimpses of notes—budget calculations, timeline sketches. Grant was always planning, always balancing the chaos Callum created.

Callum sighed, dragging a hand through his hair again. “She wasn’t what I expected, okay? I thought she’d just brush me off like everyone else, but she... she listened. Like, really listened. And then she started digging into my file, like she actually wanted to figure out what was going on.” He paused, frowning. “You know how rare that is? Someone like her, actually bothering to do more than nod politely and say ‘we’ll get back to you’?”

“That’s more than most would do,” Grant pointed out, his pen pausing mid-note. “Sounds like she might actually help.”

Callum hesitated, pacing the room. “She said she’d see what she could do. But all it feels like is more waiting. More hoops to jump through. I don’t need someone looking at spreadsheets and making promises—I need results. I need this to work. The opening is supposed to be in six weeks, Grant. Six weeks.”

Grant didn’t flinch under Callum’s outburst. He rarely did. Instead, he closed the notebook with a soft thud and leaned back in his chair, his calm gaze meeting Callum’s fiery one. “You’re not mad at her. You’re mad because you’re scared.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Callum stopped pacing, his shoulders stiffening. “I’m not scared,” he said, though the edge in his voice betrayed the lie.

“Yeah, you are,” Grant countered, his tone free of judgment. “Because this isn’t just about the art center, is it? It’s about your mom. It’s about proving to yourself—and everyone else—that you can pull this off.”

Callum opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. Grant’s quiet logic, as always, cut through the storm of his emotions. He hated that Grant was right.

“This place means everything to me,” Callum admitted after a long pause. His voice was quieter now, tinged with something closer to vulnerability. “It’s not just a building. It’s her—everything she stood for. If it fails, it feels like I’m failing her all over again.”

Grant’s expression softened, his usual pragmatism tempered with something more personal. “I get it,” he said, closing his notebook. “But you can’t carry all of it alone. Let people help you. Even bank managers.”

Callum let out a bitter laugh. “Easier said than done.”

“Not everything’s a fight,” Grant said. “Sometimes, people surprise you. Give her a chance to surprise you.”

The advice hung in the air. Callum glanced toward the mural of his mother, the sunlight catching on the sunflower behind her ear. The colors seemed to brighten slightly, as if the mural itself were urging him forward. He didn’t say anything, but his fingers brushed the edge of the sandpaper on the table, his mind churning with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Grant was right.

For the first time all day, the noise in Callum’s head quieted. He wasn’t sure what he’d do next—revisit the bank, focus on rallying the community, or just keep sanding benches until his thoughts came clear—but for the first time, he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of letting someone else in.