Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
She looked to my father. “I said I wished to speak with my daughter alone.”
“You can talk out in the hall,” he said. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”
“Is there some reason we can’t talk in here?”
My father’s gaze flickered to his work in progress. Thankfully, only the back of the canvas was visible from this side of the studio. “Maddox and I have a few things to discuss. In private.”
“That’s all right, Henry.” Maddox lobbed a smirk in my direction and strutted toward the door. “You and I can talk any old place. Let Paige show Charlotte what y’all have been working on.”
My mother stood ramrod-straight, forcing Maddox to walk around her on his way out. My own spine felt about as sturdy as dried spaghetti in comparison. My father lingered in the doorway, his expression guarded.
“I’ll be in the apartment if you need anything,” he said.
“You didn’t answer my question, Henry. What is Maddox doing here?”
He shrugged. “It’s a party. Everyone’s invited. Even you, apparently.”
“Right.” Her laughter fell flat. “I’m sure my invitation just got lost in the mail.”
My father glanced at me one last time and then left, shutting the door. My mother and I assessed each other in the resulting silence. She was wearing the pink scarf I’d given her last Mother’s Day over a striped dress that emphasized her waifish figure. Her eyes appeared sunken like she hadn’t slept in days. I wondered if she had stopped eating, and if I asked her, would she tell me the truth.
“Have you been crying, Paige?”
I sucked in a loud breath through my nose. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
In truth, I was still reeling from the spanking Maddox had given me, confused as to how I felt about what he’d done versus what he’d asked me to let him do. Clearly, he and my father had some sort of arrangement with Kristin, an arrangement Maddox incorrectly assumed extended to me. However, now was hardly the time to unpack those feelings. My mother was watching; I needed to stay alert.
“What are you doing here, Mom?”
“You won’t return my calls, so I figured I’d come see you. Don’t worry, I won’t be staying long.” She looked me over with a small, sad smile. “Is that a new dress?”
I nodded.
“It’s nice. You look good.”
“Thanks.”
My mother set her purse and the shopping bag on the floor and opened her arms to me. I remained rooted in place, not wanting to be touched, afraid she could read the truth on my skin like Braille. Eventually, she gave up, her smile tightening into a wince as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear—hair the same color and thickness as mine, only shorter.
Guilt rapped its knuckles on the back door of my heart. I pinched the inside of my wrist, both as penance for treating her coldly and to distract myself.
“Do you want to show me what you’ve been working on?” she asked.
It seemed like a safe enough way to fill the silence. Besides, if she saw how well I was doing and how hard I’d been working to improve as an artist, she would realize there was no need to worry, and leave us alone.
“Okay.”
Thankfully, I didn’t have to go far to gather my sketchbooks. My mother sidled up to the workbench, and I laid my drawings out for her perusal. She fingered the pages with care, her gaze drifting over depictions of clouds and body parts and cityscapes.
“These are lovely.” She lingered over a series of sketches featuring my father’s hands holding and manipulating various objects: paintbrushes, bedsheets, flowers, my feet. “This is Henry?”
“Yeah,” I said. Apparently time and wear and tear in the studio hadn’t altered his hands so as to make them unrecognizable. I was glad I knew better than to store the drawings of his cock with my regular work.
My mother cleared her throat but said nothing in response. You could have filled volumes of empty pages with everything she’d left unsaid. Grimacing, she rose from the stool and pressed a hand to her stomach.
Finally, I had to ask, “When was the last time you ate?”
She breathed through what appeared to be an intense abdominal cramp. “I had a coffee this morning.”
I clenched my teeth. So, this was how she was going to punish me for not staying in touch. By refusing to take care of herself. “I’ll get you something from the apartment—”
“No,” she snapped. Then, more calmly, “I have a granola bar in my bag.”
Hands shaking with frustration, I snatched her purse from the floor and rifled through it until I came across a fruit and nut bar, which I passed to her. My mother took her time opening the package, and even more time forcing herself to take a bite.
Her gaze flitted about the studio as she chewed. I counted my breaths. One. Don’t see the painting. Two. Don’t ask what he’s been working on—