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Twenty minutes later, the familiar station wagon pulls up in front of me, and my grandpa greets me with a weathered smile. His salt and pepper hair looks the same as the day I left. I’m so happy to see him that I almost cry. I open the door and slide into the passenger’s seat. I throw my bag into the back seat before hugging his side and letting him kiss me on the top of the head like he’s always done.
“Hey, sweetheart, you doing okay?” his gruff voice asks.
“Better now, I missed you,” I admit while buckling up.
“We missed you too, sweetie, but I have to be honest, I’m surprised you do. I thought once you were in college, we would hardly ever hear from you, let alone see you,” he chuckles, but I know his statement is true. Guilt and sadness overcome me at his words, and I know he is right. I certainly wasn’t planning on coming back besides maybe Christmas and Thanksgiving, and even that was questionable.
I’ve never quite accepted living with my grandparents, and they never quite accepted that I was still here when their beloved daughter wasn’t. I’ve heard your mother would’ve never done that one too many times not to know they resent me for being here when she isn’t.
“I guess it took me to get away to realize how much you mean to me.”
My grandpa clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden emotional turn the conversation has taken. “So how are your grades?” he asks, desperate to change the subject.
“I’m passing all of my classes,” I say, keeping out the part that I’m only barely passing some of them.
“Well, that’s good to hear. We were worried about that. You know you haven’t always been great with your academics… not like your mom was.” And there it is. Just like that, I’m reminded why I couldn’t get out of my grandparents’ house fast enough.
Swallowing my pride, I don’t answer with a snarky remark like I want to. Instead, I smile and try to forget that he said it in the first place. I sink back into the seat and try not to think about anything at all. Not about my grandparents, not about my parents and sister dying, and definitely not about Sebastian, the blackmail, and the fact that he could lose everything because of me.
“Dinner is ready,” my grandma’s voice booms down the hall.
“Coming,” I call back, but continue mixing the red and black on my pallet. I make a few more strokes on the canvas before depositing my brush into the water-filled mason jar. I step back and take in the now painted canvas.
With all my art stuff around, my room looks more like an art studio than a teenage girl’s bedroom. I guess not much has changed. I’m perfectly fine with it though. I love the smell of the paint, the way the brush feels in my hand. My most favorite thing is being able to manipulate the paint to bend it to my will and create a world exactly the way I want to.
Painting gives me a sense of control that I’ve never had at any time in my life. I control the brush and the paint, no one else interferes, and when I mess up, I let the paint dry and paint right over it. Life doesn’t have do-overs like painting does. Life is hard.
Before I leave the room, I open the drawer of my desk to look at the phone inside. It has been ringing non-stop since I arrived here. Most of the phone calls have been Sebastian, but there are plenty from Del, Jules, and even Rem tried calling a few times.
I only answered Jules and Del once and only to tell them I’m okay and safe. I didn’t want them to worry or file a missing person report or something. Other than that, I ignored the plethora of missed calls and messages. I need time to think, to breathe. I don’t want to let Sebastian sway my choices. I know he loves his job, and I know he wants me to stay in school, but I don’t know if that’s feasible.
After discovering that he’s paying someone off to hide us, to keep us a secret, I’m not just sad, but angry. I don’t want to be a secret anymore. I don’t want to hide what we’re doing.
Which leaves me with only one option.
Closing the drawer, I make my way through the house and into the dining room.
“Wash your hands, child, your fingers are covered in paint,” my grandma orders.
I do as she asks without complaint and dry my hands with the dishtowel. Then I walk to the table which is already set. My grandma is a little different than my grandpa. While my grandpa does throw jabs at me, I can tell he loves me. My grandmother, on the other hand, is closed off. She’s never said she wished I was in the car that day, but she doesn’t have to.
