It was made entirely of old melted down and welded wine bottles and reconfigured geodes he'd found in the Museum of Natural History's gift shop. It was so incredibly beautiful as it stood in his window, ingesting the sinking sunlight before regurgitating it out in spectral colors across the walls of the room, that Oscar could not help but feel as if his insides had liquefied and were running down his bones like hot candle wax. He could not remember the last time he'd felt a joy like this, a joy in what he was capable of creating. The thing was all greens and dark yellows, purples and specks of random light. This was what he'd missed—this sensation of taking things lifeless or ugly and transforming them into objects of beauty. Whether or not they were useful mattered little to him. When he had been selling for Doctor Chilton, he'd taken ugly things and made uglier things with them—things that were functioning, though! Functioning was important, she'd told him. But Oscar cared nothing for function if the pieces were still horrid to look at. His desire was to shape lovely things, artworks that caused the heartbeat to quicken and the soul to feel that there was something more than the world's asperity. He'd been trying all his life to escape what made daily existence seem false or dirtied, and he'd tried in a myriad of ways to overcome his disappointment at realizing the world was always going to be about as perfect as crude oil. There were no pearls in life. He would not ever attain the levels of perfection he sought; at least, now, he knew they were absolutely unattainable in this place. Perhaps there was some other reality where such purity was possible, but that reality was certainly not this one. Oscar thanked Kate for showing him that there could be worse things than seeking to create an impossible ideal—sacrificing his integrity for material and social gain was far, far more depressing than questing for a treasure he might never unearth. He knew this now, and it was a beginning source of happiness for him, a point from which to start building his life.

He had never been quite right with Eve. This was a difficult truth to admit, but once he'd resolved himself to it, Oscar could accept that his breaking with her had actually been to his benefit. The thought that he might have hurt her did pain him; he didn't want to hurt such a person as Eve. She was innocent, charming, and loving, but he would have hurt her more had he stayed in her life or if he chose to re-enter it by apologizing to her or rekindling their relationship. His mind somewhat grasped the understanding that Eve had been a distraction. While she'd been different from other women he'd been with in the past (the reason he had been so enchanted with her in the first place), she, as all other love interests had been and would be, had actually caused him to be more dissatisfied with himself. He had never felt good enough for Eve, or anyone else, for that matter. He had always felt as if he should be able to give her more, to be less of a burden on her, but the truth was, as he'd admitted to Kate, he was selfish. He had always been consumed with the need to make himself happy, and how could one possibly hope to please another when he was not pleased with himself?

As Oscar knew he would never be satisfied with himself, he assumed that he might never really be able to love someone else. Rather than depressing him, this idea freed him. Oscar had never felt less oppressed, actually, than he felt now. He had spent every day of the past few weeks on his own. Sketching, crafting, and piecing together ideas for new sculptures. He'd spoken with his mother a few times, for once not feeling guilty when he talked about his aspirations or current undertakings. If he did not sell what he enjoyed making, he would take on some other job to make the money he needed in order to pay for his hobby, but whatever that job might be, it would not involve making someone else's view of art. He could never do that again.

He had made the decision to cut ties with everyone he knew. This meant not only Eve and Kate Chilton but also Derek and Mark and the other people he'd randomly hung out or partied with. His flirtations with drugs and alcohol were over. They, too, had never made him happy; they, too, had been distractions for him. He couldn't justify using them anymore.

In spite of his resolutions, Oscar was mindful that total happiness was an elusive ambition. He was not foolish enough to believe he would ever grasp it for more than moments at a time, but those moments were, he'd decided, worth pursuing. The joy of creating an object that brought him solace and pride was incomparable; he could think of nothing else like it. So he determined to start afresh, with himself as his focus, so that he could concentrate on doing the only thing he could truly say he loved.

Oh, he wasn't perfect, and he never would be. He had no doubt that he'd struggle at times; the same depression that had haunted him throughout his life would return, consume him—he'd feel torn and bitter and would want to console the shadow within. He knew those times would come, but he would have to deal with them when they did, not worry about them when he was unencumbered.

Absentmindedly, lost in the warmth of colors slowly waving across his walls, Oscar picked up and answered his phone as it rang.

"Hello?" he said almost without knowing. It was impossible for this caller to be anyone but his mother. The voice on the other end said a few things, and as he slowly became aware that this was certainly not Alessandra, Oscar woke up a bit. "Wait, wait. Who is this?" He had to turn and leave the room if he wanted to break free of his sculpture's spell.

"Sorry—I—it's Selene. From your art class with Dr. Chilton. We—we ran into each other a few weeks ago . . . do you not remember me?"

He had entirely forgotten the encounter, but Oscar had not forgotten the girl. "I remember you. I'm sorry that I didn't call you, but I—"

"Oh don't worry about it. I'm obviously calling you."

Oscar didn't know what to say. He wouldn't have answered his phone had he known who was calling. The way the girl had looked at him, the timidity in her voice—she was hoping for something from him; it was something he couldn't give.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry."

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

He wanted to say yes. "No, not at all."

"Good," she said, and he wondered where she was, because he thought he heard voices in the background. "Listen, Oscar, I was calling because I wanted to get to know you a little more. I thought your artwork was so good in our class, and I was so happy for you when you had your pieces auctioned off. It's exciting to see someone actually get somewhere in the fine arts. I understand if you're busy or uninterested, but I don't want anything crazy. I just thought it might be nice to go out for a drink some evening. I'd enjoy talking about art with someone as interested in it as I am."

He didn't want to disappoint her. She sounded so clearly hopeful that he would agree. But Oscar couldn't put himself right back where he'd come from. He had to be honest. "Selene, you're very beautiful, and it's kind of you to think I'm worth having a conversation with. But I'm in a strange place right now. I know it's not really of interest to you, but I'm sort of . . . starting over with myself, and I'm not ready for someone like you, yet."

"That's the strangest rejection I've ever had," came the girl's voice after a moment's quiet.

"I'm sorry. It's the truth."

"Well, if you change your mind, you have my number. I'm not looking for anything in particular—just someone to talk to."

"Thank you for thinking of me."

"Yeah. Maybe I'll hear from you. If not, good luck with your work."

"Thanks, you too."

He waited for the other line to click off, then lowered his phone from his ear. For a moment, he just stared at the wall. He thought of Eve, then—something pained him inside. Yes, yes—she'd been a distraction. He'd not liked himself during those times. But he was fairly certain he'd liked her . . . maybe even loved her, regardless of whether or not he'd loved himself. Still, he would have ultimately made things worse for both of them had he kept on with her. Lives moved away from each other. Certain things were not meant to be. And yet . . .

He sighed, stood, and returned to the room with his newest sculpture standing in the window, tall and beautiful, like glass vines twisting into a fluid column, glinting with little crystals and sparks of silver welding. It was absolutely stunning.