“There’s still time to win you over.”
“I’ve known you for a while now; it's not going to happen.”
His phone rings and he pulls it out. Hope blooms in my chest that maybe he’ll leave now. “I’m coming,” he says to whoever is on the line. He straightens his posture, and the smug grin is replaced by a tightness around his eyes. “Sorry, I’m going to have to end this conversation.”
“What a shame,” I say in a sarcastic tone.
He shakes his head as he slips his phone into his pocket.
“Goodbye, ladies,” he says, moving his gaze from Evelyn’s to mine before walking away.
After he’s out of earshot, Evelyn grabs my forearm. “God damn, he’s hot. And he better not tell his seamstress anything. The image of his ass in those pants is branded on my brain forever.”
I roll my eyes and step away to return to my seat. “You need to get laid.”
“I do. Let’s go out to a bar.”
If she wasn’t working, we could’ve gone out on Saturday, even though I don’t usually go out because of a few factors. One is work, two, I’m exhausted, and three, money. I don’t have money to waste when I’m saving for a house.
“Next time we both don’t work, let’s go to the one with the mechanical bull?”
Her face brightens, and her eyes shimmer. “You want to ride one?”
“Yeah, it looks like fun, and the guys would be less pretentious at one of those bars.”
The thought of talking to another guy like Oliver at a fancy bar makes my stomach churn. They hold their power above everyone, which is why I’m determined to stay focused on my house.
“Let me know when you’re free, and let’s do it.”
I try to refocus, but the image of him walking in makes everything shift.
My pulse quickens, tension creeping into my shoulders. It’s not just that he was here… It’shim. I’ve tried to bury my shame, but seeing him again makes something inside me snap. I try to calm my racing heart, but my body still reacts like I’m back in that moment. The time I tried to kiss him, and he rejected me. That feeling, that sting, comes rushing back in a flash. It’s been buried under a lot of other things—work, school, life—but it doesn’t take much for it to surface again.
I take a photo of my painting to send it to Amber, and for a moment, I just look at it,reallylook at it. It makes me feel something I haven’t felt in a while: proud. As I pack up my things, Mrs. Bennett offers to hold on to my painting until I decide whether to sell it.
After saying goodbye to Evelyn, who takes the subway home, I walk to work. I have plenty of time to get there. I work at Tills’ Sip N’ Paint, a small business where I teach painting classes to anyone who wants to drink wine and try art. I love it. It’s messy and loud, but it’s also creative and fun in a way that makes the hours fly by. The streets are still buzzing with energy, as always, in Manhattan. I pull out my phone and call Amber, my adopted mother, as I weave through the crowd. I like checking in with her on my walk; she always wants to know how class went, what I painted, if I’m eating enough.
“Hi, sweetie,” she answers with a cheerful greeting.
“Hey, Amber,” I say, already feeling a little lighter just hearing her.
“How was class today?”
“Good,” I reply, smiling at the thought. It wasn’t perfect, but it was fun. The only thing shaking me up was Oliver’s surprise drop-in.
“What did you focus on today?” she asks. I love that she’s always invested in what interests me and hearing my progress.
If it weren’t for Amber, I probably wouldn’t have found the courage to go back to school. Her loving support and meeting Evelyn, who instantly pulled me into friendship with her bubbly personality, was exactly what I needed. I have a habit of being critical of my art, but Amber's encouragement and Evelyn’s enthusiasm give me the boost I need to keep going.
I tell her about my day, when she cuts in with a question I should’ve seen coming because I forgot to hit send. “Did you take a photo?”
“I sure did. Hang on a sec.” I pause my walk, stepping to the side as I scroll through my phone to find the best picture. Sending it off, I wait for her response.
“Oh my, it’s beautiful,” she says after a moment.
“It’s one of my favorite pieces,” I admit, feeling proud as I think back to the soft pink petals I carefully painted.
“Why’s that?”
