Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Thanks, Alice.”
There is a knock at the door, causing us both to turn. Alice gives me a look. “Seems like your boy’s here. I’ll go and see what Pat wants to do, whether he stays or takes you away. Remember: tie that man down!” She winks again, then saunters across the loft back to her room, where she shuts the door softly behind her.
I abandon the remainder of my cereal and head over to my door, smirking and excited. “Y’know, you could have texted before just showing up out of the blue,” I call out at the door as I approach.
Then I open it.
It’s not Adrian.
It’s my dad.
He’s basically what I will look like in twenty years, plus a few inches. He’s oddly young-looking for his age, betrayed only by a few flecks of salt and pepper across his temples. Before my brother died, he was full of joy, smiling, happy, easy to laugh at jokes—even bad ones.
The man at my door looks like he hasn’t laughed or cried in a whole year. He’s blank as a stone. Cold-eyed. Always looking like he just came off of a fourteen-hour shift. Sleeves rolled up. Tie askew, one button undone. Hair tired and out of place.
“Dad?” I finally greet him, stunned.
He takes a breath before speaking. “Quintin.”
“I …” What am I supposed to say? He never visits out of the blue like this. “I didn’t know you were coming over, otherwise I’d have, well …” Would I have cleaned up the place? Is it even possible? “Come in,” I finally settle on, stepping aside.
He comes through the door, but not much further. His eyes drift about the loft here and there. For some reason, I feel like the only things his eyes find are the dirty spots, flaws, and messes. He even seems to notice the bowl of half-eaten cereal on the counter next to my phone.
“Sorry,” I say suddenly. “The place is a mess. I’ve … I’ve been working on my summer showcase project. It’s a series of paintings.”
He gazes past me as if I’m not even there, seeming to notice the easels in the corner of the room, but not quite looking at them.
Something’s wrong. “Dad?”
Without meeting my eyes, he says, “You haven’t been answering my calls. Been a week since I heard from you.”
I shuffle my feet. “Sorry, I know.”
“You’re gone every weekend, too.”
“I’ve been busy. I’m … Like I said, I’ve been working on my—”
“Your art, right.” He glances past me at the easels, does another survey of the room with his lazy, cold eyes. “So I’ve heard.”
I blink. “So you’ve heard …?”
“I spoke to one of your roommates last weekend when I dropped in. He mentioned your frequent visits down the causeway. Something about a boy you’ve been seeing.”
He? It wasn’t Alice he spoke to. Must’ve been Jacque, my other roommate, or possibly Hernando, I’m not sure. “I’ve been down to Dreamwood Isle a few times, yes, it’s true. It’s been for research, like I told you.”
“Right, like you’ve told me.” His mouth tightens.
His tone suggests he’s far from convinced. “See? Look at my work,” I say, gesturing back at the easels his eyes keep gliding over. “Beaches are kinda my new thing. Also people. Well, one person, in particular, actually. And I—”
“I’m tired, Quintin.”
I turn back to him, blank-faced. He still hasn’t stepped more than a foot or two into the loft. “Tired? From work?”
“Of letting you … play … with your life.”
I feel my heart sink.
It’s amazing, how much poison a parent can pour into one single word.
Play.
All of my art, all of my dreams, all of my interests and hopes and inspirations … boiled down to one single, bitter, mocking word.
“Your mother is tired, too,” he decides to add. I should mention he isn’t looking at me as he speaks. “This vision you have for yourself? Being an artist? Living the artist’s life? Partying down at the beach every weekend, living in a loft with other artists, pinching pennies …?” He lets out a sigh of disappointment. “How am I supposed to be okay with any of this? You don’t even return my calls. Have you forgotten who’s paying for this education you’re wasting?”
I’m an inch tall. My dad is an expert at taking back every damned inch I’ve proudly grown in my twenty-one years of life, like I don’t deserve them. “I’m not wasting my education, Dad. I’m … I’m flourishing, actually. I feel like I’m finally finding my voice. Look at my paintings for yourself. See how far I’ve come.” I take a few steps toward them. He doesn’t follow. I stop. “Dad?”
“You won’t be continuing this program in the fall.”
Now he has me by the throat. I can’t breathe. “What?”
“I’m not paying your tuition anymore. You will come home. You will enroll at the school your mother and I had originally advised you to attend. You will—”