On paper, it’s perfect. Practically a fairy tale, so why do I feel like I’m suffocating, like my future’s already been decided? Like I’m living someone else’s dream.
Like this—thislife—might not be mine at all.
I stare at my blank canvas.
I am not even sure what I was working on anymore, or, hell, what time is it? The events of today are now a distant blur.
I pick up my paintbrush and palette, filled with blues and greens, and swipe the brush through the thick cerulean blue. With quick, deliberate strokes, a beautiful sky forms its shape on the rough canvas in front of me.
After hours of painting, I set my brushes down and take a sip of my now warm water, stepping back from my work. I look at the magnificent fairy forest I painted and suddenly realize I still have my music on shuffle.
Orianthi’s song,According to You,is now spilling from my speakers. Tears blur my vision, racing down my cheeks, as my chest tightens, each breath harder than the last under the crushing weight of breaking up with Donovan.
As I rage sing, I take a bucket of black paint and throw it on the canvas. With a loud splat, the black paint cascades down the canvas, and the fairy forest is now covered in a sorrowful shadow.
The studio door creaks, and I hear my father say, “Stellina…what happened? Are you okay?”
I fell into a slump on the floor with my back against my desk leg and let out a long sigh. “No, Papa, I am not okay.”
I can see the anger flood through my father. “Stellina, if that D’Angelo boy hurt you, I have a casket with his name on it!”
As busy as my father is running Carrington Caskets, he has never been too busy for me.
He sits down on the floor next to me and pulls me in for a hug.
“Papa, he didn’t hurt me. Well, not exactly. I guess he kinda did, but I broke up with him.”
I put my head between my legs and take a couple of deep breaths, trying to ground myself.
“Stellina, you know you can tell me anything.”
I quietly stand up and hand my father the flyers from school. As he stares at it, I can see the rage in his eyes.
“Papa, Elaine, and her friends posted this around the entire school today. It was so embarrassing! With everything else Elaine has done to me, Donovan thinks I must have done something wrong to Elaine. He didn’t believe me when I told him how she’s been mean to me since second grade.”
My dad pulls me into the biggest hug, the one that always makes me feel better. “Look, Stellina, you know I dislike that boy. He is no good for you! At least now you won't get hurt when he moves off to college this fall. You know your place is here learning about Carrington Caskets.”
My eyes fall to the floor, and I look at my paint-splattered vans.
It’s always the same song and dance. I can stay local and go to the University of Saguaro, but he will not even discuss me moving to another state for school.
He says I have to get a business degree so I can take over one day.
“I know, Papa, I know,” I say to him before we stand up.
With a last glance at my ruined painting, I switch off the music and embrace the quiet, carrying the weight of choices I never truly made.
I turn back and see my dad lost in thought, his fingers hovering just shy of the canvas, as if he doesn’t want the paint to smear onto his hand.
Growing up, I was always told that art flowed naturally from me, like I was a reincarnated Van Gogh. In eighth grade, I finally told my parents about my dream: to study fine arts, open a gallery, and have the most elite collectors buy my work.
The moment the words left my mouth, I could practically see the steam billowing from my father’s ears. He was furious when I even suggested not taking over the family business.
But why can’t I have both? Why can’t I go to art school like I want and still take over the company one day?
Am I being too ambitious? Is it too daring of a dream? Why can’t I have both?
Two Years Later, Donovan
