Each stroke of color seems to be placed deliberately in a pattern, creating an illusion of being in the center of a museum or art exhibit. I step into the brightly lit room, careful not to step into one of what seems like hundreds of tiny puddles of paint.
The ceiling and a ledge at about seven feet tall with a giantglass flower vase are the only things without a touch of color in this room. Chaotically beautiful.
“I knew you were a man of a few words, but speechless looks good on you too,” Riley teases with a smirk while she casually rests her shoulder on the door frame.
“What is this?” I ask, the only thing I can think of. One thing she’s right about: I am speechless.
“It’s my art room, but it looked so sad, all white and zero color, so I decided to have some fun. It started small, and now, I can’t stop.” She shrugs as her toes intertwine with each other, almost bashful. That’s a first.
“I don’t understand it, but it’s beautiful,” I add.
"Thanks. And you kinda don’t have to. That’s the thing about art—it doesn’t have to make sense to evoke a reaction.”
Right. “And what would you call this reaction?”
“Awe,” she replies softly, the word floating between us. She’s spot on; that’s exactly what I feel. “When was the last time you felt it?”
“Awe?” I ask, and she nods in reply. “I can’t recall.” It’s true. I don’t think I’ve ever felt it either. If I think back on the most impactful moments of my life, I don’t remember feeling like this in any of them. How sad is it that I’m thirty-six years old, and I don’t remember the last time I felt amazement like this? Sounds silly, but it’s true.
“Sometimes, Dom, it’s good to find the child hiding inside you and let him free.” She stretches her hand, offering me a paintbrush. I hesitate, but I can’t. Not now. I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’m not an artist; the only thing I know how to create is disappointment and empty promises, even if I’ve tried my hardest not to. Not at work—I manage to accomplish those—but outside of that pasture, I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.
She shrugs it off, dropping the paintbrush onto the ground. “Okay then. Suit yourself.”
“You needed my help, yeah?”
“Oh, yes, yes. I don’t have a ladder here, and I need that,” shepoints to the vase sitting on the ledge, “down. I even brought that chair here, but I still can’t reach it.”
“You could’ve tilted this chair over, fallen, and broken something, you know?”
“Yes, daddy, I know.”
I choke on my spit. The urge to lay her across my lap and spank her ass so she has a reason to call medaddyis strong. So I’m going to ignore that and just grab the vase she needs. It’s transparent, but it’s not empty; it has some sort of papers at the bottom, but I can’t pinpoint what they are. It’s heavy as shit, and her feet, wet with paint, would’ve been a walking hazard if she were to take it.
“Where are you taking my jar?” she asks as I step through the room towards the stairs.
“Out of this paint-filled room. The last thing I need is for you to fall down the stairs with it.” I keep going down the steps. “And it’s a vase, not a jar.”
“Same, same.”
I shake my head. “No, not same, same. Jars don’t have this narrow neck. These are for flowers.”
“Well, I put papers in there.”
“I can see that.” I’m on the bottom floor, waiting for her to catch up and tell me where she wants it. She’s taking her sweet time, though. I’m starting to believe she’s doing it on purpose, just to get a rise out of me.
“You can set it on the kitchen table.”
I do as she says, walking through her cabin until I make it to the kitchen. Last time I was here, things were covered in smoke, and it was a disaster, a complete contrast to the pristine kitchen I find myself in. The opposite of the room upstairs too. Actually, the whole cabin is. This area, the ‘living’ area, is squeaky clean, nothing out of place. It’s like nobody lives here, and definitely not torbellino of a human over there.
“Like what I did here?” she asks knowingly.
“Where did you hide all your stuff?”
“I put it away, like the responsible adult I am.” She’sunable to contain her laughter. “It’s all in my room. I had to leave this clear in case Lilly came in.”
“Do you even eat?” The question escapes my lips without thinking. I forget that not everyone’s first thought about caring for others is food.
“I had some crackers.” When I first moved here and Lilly explained breakfast and lunch were provided in the main house, just not dinner, since Lainey left early so she could be with her family, it made all the sense in the world. I’m fine cooking once a day. It’s even better than I expected, actually.
