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“No, Dad. No, no.”
“—get a real education in something that will actually give you a future. This?” He gestures carelessly at every damned thing his cold eyes can pierce. “This is not your future. I won’t let my son waste it.”
“Dad, stop. You didn’t even—” Why am I already almost in tears? Stop crying. “Dad, you need to look at my paintings, seriously. I haven’t just been partying. Please.”
“The drive here from home is over an hour, you know that? An hour and nineteen minutes. Gas, too.” His eyes turn colder, if that’s even possible. “Answer your phone. Text me back. Have the decency to respond to your father.”
At once, I’m angry. “Have the decency to look me in the eye when you’re ripping my passion out of my chest,” I snap back.
He looks me in the eye, just like I wanted.
I crumble under his judging, terrible stare, like I’m ten years old again, defying him despite my fear.
Maybe I was better without the eye contact.
He shakes his head. “Don’t be dramatic, Quintin. I’m not ripping the passion out of your—Really, as if this is Shakespeare. Of course you have talent,” he says, softer. “Your mother and I know it. Your paintings are beautiful. Every one of them you ever gave us hangs somewhere in our house, even your doodles and sketches are stuck on the fridge with alphabet magnets. You have the talent.” He sighs. “And you can use that talent just as well at home, in your spare time, while attending a school for a legitimate career path. No one’s taking your passion away.”
I can barely stand it. “Dad …”
He turns away, opens the door to see himself out, then gazes at me over his shoulder, standing in the doorway. “I love you. I’m not doing this to hurt you. You’ll realize in the long run I was right, and you’ll thank me.”
He leaves.
I follow him into the hallway outside my loft. “This is about Angel.”
The mention of my dead brother’s name stops him at once. He doesn’t move, not even to turn around and glare indignantly at me. I wonder if he even draws breath.
“This is about Angel,” I repeat. “I know it is. But no matter what school you enroll me in, I won’t be him.”
“Quintin …” he breathes, barely audible, his back still turned to me.
“I’m not as smart as he was. I’m not as strong. I’m not as clever. I don’t have the high grades. I don’t have the love of law that burned inside him, the same way it burns inside of you. I’m a different breed, Dad.”
“Stop,” he hisses, still not turning around.
“But I have his ambition,” I go on. “I have his resolve. I have his determination. But my determination is for my art. It’s for expressing my soul … something he envied. Haven’t you looked at my paintings lately? Really looked at them? Angel’s in every single one, painted into the skies, into the clouds, into every last sunset.” I wipe away a tear, frustrated. “Dad, turn around and look at me. Please.”
He doesn’t.
I consider begging him. I consider asking him to come back inside for a glass of water, to calm down, to try and think this through. I consider tying him to a chair and refusing to let him go until he’s given an honest look at each and every one of my paintings in that loft. But will it make a difference?
If he looked at my paintings, would he even be able to see past his own grief?
He doesn’t say anything. Finally, he walks away, and I just stand there in the hallway and let him. Long after he’s out of sight, likely already in his car, I’m still standing in the hallway all by myself, echoes of our words haunting me in the near silence.
A moment later, I’m back at the kitchen counter. My cereal is soggy and unappealing. I tap on my phone to find Adrian has answered. He’s had the best day. He can’t wait to see me. He’s on his way over.
Despite everything with my dad, I smile.
I’m determined to be happy. I’m determined not to let my dad control my life. He’ll see in the end that I’m right. Angel would have wanted me to chase my dreams. We both know my dad is just grieving and lost.
I’ll find a way to pay for my own tuition. I might need to take a semester off, but I’ll figure out a way. And in time, Dad will discover a better way to cope with his loss, and our relationship will stop suffering under our sorrows.
I have to tell myself that.
Even if I don’t fully believe it yet.
When Adrian arrives, I barely notice what he’s wearing because I go right up to him and hug him, my face buried in his chest. He laughs, rubs my back, and says, “Glad to see me or something?” I just chuckle and mumble, “You want to take me the hell outta this loft before I suffocate?”
