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Her question hurt. Mostly because I didn’t know how to answer it. I had been so quick to leave Southport after graduation. I went to art school in Pittsburgh and got a Bachelor of Arts degree in Art studies. I then went to New York and interned at a gallery, all the while working on my own pieces. My dream had always been to make a living off my artwork. And for a time, I thought I had made it.
Mr. Duncan, the gallery owner, saw some of my work and decided to feature me. People started buying my prints. I was able to rent a cute studio apartment in Queens. Several small newspapers featured me in their lifestyle sections.
I was building a name. Slowly but surely, my reputation was spreading in the art community. Mr. Duncan, impressed with the sales of my early pieces, decided to set up a showing of my art. A whole night devoted to my paintings. My dreams.
And it tanked.
The once bright light I had been shooting for burned out.
The thing about the art world is staying relevant was hard. Once people stopped talking about you, it was damn near impossible to make them start again. Not when there were so many other artists out there vying for their attention.
So, I was now, a decade later, working full-time as a waitress in midtown, still trying to pedal my art.
I thought having my dreams crushed with a sledgehammer was the worst feeling in the world until my dad died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-three—only two years from retirement—and I learned that anguish could morph and multiply in horrifying ways.
I hadn’t answered Whitney’s insensitive question, because I didn’t know how to force the words out of my mouth without telling her to go fuck herself.
So, after haranguing Mom for weeks, it was finally agreed that I’d sublet my apartment to my good friend, Damien—a fellow artist—and move back to Southport.
After many tears, it was decided that Mom couldn’t continue in my childhood home. It was too big for just her, the upkeep was too much. She needed something smaller and more affordable. But the place needed work before it was ready to go to market. If Mom wanted to get the optimum amount for the property, there was plastering and painting to be done. The downstairs bathroom could use updating and a new fence installed. It was a lot of work, and Mom’s finances were in dire straits. There was only one solution: I’d come and help her out. We’d pool our money with Whitney agreeing to pitch in and get the jobs done on our own. I could paint just as well as any professional. I could wield a hammer.
If there was one thing Meghan Galloway wasn’t afraid of, it was hard work.
“She sounds a lot like you,” Damien teased. I snorted because it was true. I had inherited my mother’s stubbornness, that was for sure.
“Don’t forget to feed Sunny and Lola. And if you go away, I have those weekend tablets to put in the tank—”
“I got it, Megalicious. I promise I won’t kill your goldfish.” Damien crossed his heart and held his two fingers up in a Boy Scout salute. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face with a sober expression. “I do hate that you’re leaving, though. I’m worried I’ll never see you again. That this tiny, tiny town will swallow you up and keep you.”
I smiled weakly. His concerns weren’t entirely unfounded. Southport had a gravity about it that made it difficult to leave.
Was it Southport?
Or was it the people who lived there?
And by people, I mean one person specifically?
Nope. I wouldn’t think about him. I refused to. I wouldn’t allow his face, his smile, his eyes, to take up any space in my mind.
He had given up that right ten years ago when he had chosen to be with Chelsea Sloane.
“I won’t be gone forever. We have shared custody of Sunny and Lola, remember?” I poked him in the side, trying not to show him the dread I was feeling.
Damien kissed the tip of my nose before giving a strand of my bright red hair a tug. “I’m holding you to that.” He smacked my ass and gave me a playful shove toward my car. “Now get going. Traffic is going to be a nightmare if you wait much longer to leave. Lincoln Tunnel is a bitch any time of day.”
I sighed heavily. I couldn’t help it. “Yeah, you’re right. I’d better head out.” I paused for a moment to soak in the last bit of my busy, congested neighborhood. I loved the city. I loved the noise and endless movement. I loved the honking horns and lights that burned through the night. It was hard to find quiet places in New York City.
