CHAPTER TWENTY
Istare down at my canvas, smiling at the orange horizon. The lines are a little murky and I wish it had more color to it, but it’s a start.
The second I’d dropped Tanner off at school this morning, I’d come home and headed straight to the basement.
My canvas was calling to me.
I look at the time on my phone and realize I’ve been down here for over four hours. But for the first time in a while, I feel completely relaxed.
Art was my escape long before drugs and alcohol. But after I’d discovered the high those two things gave me, I’d started to think that I needed them in art to create great pieces. It felt like they made me more creative, more open and free minded. Now I realize that was just a crutch and excuse that I used. A reason to not put the bad habits down.
I stand, grabbing the ladder in the basement and setting it up against the wall right next to a small shelving area that sits at the top of the room. I take the painting off the canvas before climbing the ladder and placing it on the shelf to dry.
Hopping off the ladder, I look up at the painting in satisfaction.
Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I was this sober staring at a painting with pride.
Then again, I’ve been in a really good mood for the last couple of days. Ever since the guys and I came to an agreement to continue exploring this thing between us.
I’ve been feeling lighter, happier.
My phone rings and I look down at the screen, smiling. “Two parents in two weeks, I must be on some sort of roll.”
My father lets out a laugh. “I’m sorry, Ivy, I meant to call you earlier. Unfortunately, I was out of the country and the cell reception was shit.” His deep voice is slow as molasses, the southern flare impossible to miss.
“It’s okay, I understand.” And I do, because while it’s been weeks since I’ve talked to my father, I’m used to it when he’s out of the country for work. A retired firefighter after too many years of stress on the body had forced him out, he now works as a peace corps volunteer. He loves the job, but it takes him out of the states often. But with no other children than me and never married, there wasn’t much keeping him tied down to a sedentary life, so I understand.
“I heard Mom was out there visiting you last week.” The slight fear in his voice makes me laugh.
“Yeah, Grandma was here, but she didn’t get up to too much trouble.” As much as I wish that Grandma would have stayed a little longer, she’d gone back home a couple of days ago to help one of my cousins’ kids with a bake sale. Fortunately, she’s promised to come back in a couple of months and spend more time with us.
“Yeah.” Dad clears his throat. “She told me about your… neighbors.”
Oh God.
My cheeks flush as I think of the conversation with my Grandma and father in which she likely exaggerated the whole story while Dad looked at her with wide eyes.
“Whatever she told you… it isn’t as crazy as it sounds.” But if she said I was dating all three of my neighbors, then that’s true.
“Umm, yes, something about a… harem?” The confusion in his voice is clear.
“That woman.” I shake my head. How do I explain this to him? “I’m just casually seeing my neighbors.” There, that sounds like a close to normal answer.
“Three of them?”
My hand starts to sweat slightly so I change hands. “Yes.”
“Oh.” He quickly changes the topic, asking about the kids. We chat for a few minutes more before he has to go.
As I hang up the phone, I smile, just imagining how uncomfortable the man had to have been when Grandma was discussing harems with him. Dad has always been there for me in any way that he could, but the topic of dating has never been his forte. He’d always left it up to Grandma, choosing to act like he was unaware of my dating life. Reserved that way, I’ve always wondered how in the hell he’d ever got involved with my mother. All I know is that they’d met in Vegas while Dad was at some seminar being hosted by a former firefighter. Supposedly they’d spent a week together, I’d learned from grandma, and Dad was somehow hung up on my materialistic mother. Unfortunately, he didn’t hear from her nine months later when she had me.
Grandma says that she believed my mother had all the intentions in the world as passing me off as Kylie’s father’s daughter since they were still married at the time. Of course when I’d came out and they’d taken one look at my caramel skin color, things became a little troublesome. While mom is Mexican, her skin has always been on the lighter side, and baby pictures of Kylie showed that her skin was creamy white though she’d grown tanner as she got older.
I think if Andrew hadn’t have already suspected my mother’s affair, he would have just chalked my skin color up to a recessive gene. Unfortunately for mother, he’d wanted a paternity test and divorce papers followed when it came back negative.
Mother has hated me ever since.
Before I let the familiar waves of resentment fill me, I head upstairs, cleaning paint off of my skin.