Daisy rolled her eyes. Her daughter could be such a drama queen. “Say good night, sweetie.”
Amelia huffed, then launched into his arms. “When will I see you again?”
“Soon, I promise. I leave tomorrow, but I’ll probably be back Sunday. Then I’ll be here for a whole week.”
“Okay. Try not to miss me too much.”
“Bye, sweet girl,” he said, kissing her cheek.
Daisy stepped into his arms next and kissed him squarely. “Try not to missmetoo much.”
“I always try,” he whispered, “and always fail.”
She watched him walk down the stairs and out of sight. She would miss him. But she would survive. She always did.
Monday morning, Daisy unlocked the back door of the studio. The air smelled like fresh orange and bleach. The crew she’d hired had done an impeccable job. She flipped on the front lights, then fled upstairs to her office. She traded black jeans for baggy army green pants and a loose tank, tied her hair into a messy bun, and dropped the needle on some Bach. Oils lined the table. She adjusted the easel, stroked clean bristles between her fingers, and exhaled.
When the brush met the canvas, a deep calm fell over her. She’d been itching for this all weekend, knowing that it would transport her to another world, one where she had a normal boyfriend, with a normal relationship, where her daughter had a picture-perfect family, where their lives weren’t hours away from being upended.
She let the worries drain into the painting and worked for hours without interruption. She was delighted to have found peace in her corner of solace. Bach’s fierce lines matched what Jameson stirred in her, passion and rage. She painted with thatferocity, arms moving to the music until she nearly collapsed with it.
Her mind was in a safe place, one where light infiltrated every curve. Her optimism almost brought her to tears after all that had occurred just days prior. She tried to hold on to that when she heard the sound of the gallery door being opened. She held on even tighter when she heard the light thud of footsteps coming up the stairs and when her office door was pushed open. She didn’t need to look to know who stood behind her.
She kept painting as if he weren’t there.
When her canvas was nearly complete, she let the brush fall onto the tarp and lifted the tonearm from the record player. She crossed her paint-stained arms and turned. Jameson sat on the floor, back against the wall, face unreadable.
She walked the short distance to him, slid to her knees, and bowed her head. With the music now gone, silence swelled. They weren’t telepathic, but it felt close.
Jameson was the first one to speak and Daisy was relieved until she heard the words that came out of his mouth.
“I struggled after you left,” he said, voice rough. “The guilt over what I made you do ate at me every day. Knowing I hurt you drove me to some very dark places. It was the regret of my life.”
“James—”
“Say it, Daisy. I need to hear you say it.”
She knew what he wanted, the validation she had neglected to give him last week when he’d first seen Amelia. But she was scared then and terrified now. Once she said it, it became true and the bubble she floated in for the last nine years would finally burst.
“Say it,” he softly urged.
She lifted her chin and drew a shaky breath.
“You want me to tell you that I didn’t have an abortion that day, that instead I sat alone inside that clinic and violentlysobbed for an hour, trying to make the hardest decision of my life. That I decided to keep my child despite the fact that you and your band manager bullied me into doing the opposite.
“You need me to say that you now have a child, who you claim solely biologically, from that decision thatImade. That I had every intention of telling you but instead found you and said band manager in bed together. Naked.”
He stood. “So is that my punishment? You keeping her away from me?”
Daisy rose, too. “You think I’m that cruel?”
“Daisy, you kept my child from me for nine years. Nine years!”
“I know what I did. But don’t pretend you were in any place to be a father! If anything, I did you a favor.”
“Are you kidding me? One call. One text. And I could’ve made that decision.”
She stepped closer, finger pointed. “It wasn’t about you or me. It was about Amelia. About a child who didn’t deserve a life full of… bullshit.”
