“You’ve got applications due soon,” she reminded. “And recommendation letters. Who’s on your list?”
“Ms. Lewis.” I hesitated. “Art teacher.”
That earned me a slow exhale. “Mila?—”
“I know what you’re going to say.” My voice went sharper than I meant. “But she knows me. Really knows me. Not just grades or transcripts or how I look on paper.”
Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t interrupt. Which somehow made it worse.
So I pushed. “You’ve always been against an art degree. Against me painting. Just admit it.”
Finally, her sunglasses came off. The look underneath was tired. Too honest. “Fine. I have. Because it doesn’t pay, Mila. Because you’re too smart to pin your future on commissions andgalleries that chew people up. Because I want better for you than scraping by on someone else’s whim.”
The words stung. I sat up straighter. “It’s not a whim. It’s the only thing that feels like mine.”
Her expression softened, but her tone didn’t. “I know. I was good, too. Brushes, canvas, the whole thing. But I was just as good with numbers. Better, maybe. That’s why I’m where I am.”
“You hate where you are.”
Silence. Just waves breaking and gulls cutting the air.
Her hair whipped in the breeze as she finally said, “I didn’t have choices, Mila. Didn’t finish high school, never set foot in a college class. I stacked a résumé with schools I never attended and jobs I never had and prayed no one looked too closely. Then I learned on the fly. Listened to men I dated talk about stocks, spreadsheets, and fiscal reports and tucked it away for later. Taught myself the rest. It worked. But it isn’t an ideal life. It’s survival. And I don’t want that for you.”
The confession hollowed me out, her words hitting home. Because wasn’t that exactly what Blackwood felt like most days? Elise pulling strings, board members moving me like a pawn. Mom had lied her way into boardrooms. I was being shoved into them whether I wanted to be there or not. “I’m not you,” I whispered.
“No,” she agreed. “You’re smarter. You’ve got chances I didn’t. And I’ll be damned if I watch you throw them away.”
The fight drained out of me all at once, leaving something more raw in its place. I dragged my fingers through the sand, watching it spill back in golden streams. “But I’m not you when it comes to numbers. I don’t think in margins or spreadsheets. I never have. I don’t… see the world that way.”
Her lips parted, a flash of something similar to regret there. “You’re right. That’s me, not you.”
“So what’s me, then?”
For once, she didn’t answer right away.
She went quiet. Then, softer: “So maybe you need something else. Something that lets you keep art but doesn’t starve you for it. Graphic design. Marketing. You see color, space, angles in ways other people don’t. You could sell an image, shape it, and still keep painting.”
“Marketing?” I blinked.
“You’ve got business classes already,” she pointed out. “Add marketing next semester. Test it out.”
I rolled the idea around, fingers knotting in the edge of the blanket. “It could be… a fallback. If I need it.”
Her eyes warmed. “That’s all I’m asking.”
For once, it felt like a truce.
We talked more easily after that. About letters, deadlines, where I wanted to apply. Then about Blackwood, the move, the fact she was still “dating” Principal Miller.
She grimaced, rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses. “Dating. That’s generous. More a PR arrangement than anything else.”
I smirked. “And when it’s over?”
“When it’s over, it’s over.” She shrugged. “I’ll be relieved.”
That could’ve been the end of it, but I pressed. “Anyone else?”
Her gaze cut sideways at me, but her smile shifted—softer. “Edwardo.”
