“You’d bitch louder if it were cold now, wouldn’t you?” She places the bowl on my lap. “Eat.”
I cup one hand around the bowl and hold the spoon in the other. “I will. Now will you please check?”
An annoyed huff escapes her lips as she turns away from me, leans over my computer and wiggles the mouse, waking the screen. A few clicks later, and she gasps. “Wow.”
“What?” I sit up taller and place the bowl on the tray beside me.
“Well, it looks like some of your creepy art has sold.”
“Really?” I peel the blanket off me and sit up. My body drifts side to side, and my muscles scream, making me grimace. “How many?”
She turns and looks at me with raised brows. “All of them.”
Chapter Sixteen
Fly the Coop
After selling out of my natural death pieces, making over eight hundred dollars in a single day, I immediately went to work making more. In less than three weeks, I reached my mom’s required minimum of three thousand dollars to move out.
I found a place only twenty minutes from my parents, closer to downtown, but not so close that I don’t have breathable space. It’s a small upstairs apartment that came fully furnished. The price was a little more than I wanted to spend, but given how my online sales are going, I knew it was manageable.
It’s moving-in day, and as I watch my dad rest another heavy box on the floor of my new living room, I can’t help but admire my new home. A set of bookcases flank a nonworking fireplace, giving me ample space to display my art, and an accent wall opposite the fireplace is just wide enough to accommodate my computer desk and chair. The sectional and wooden coffee table fit neatly between them, leaving enough space for me to move freely around the living room without bumping into anything.
“That’s the last one,” my dad says, dropping a box on the couch cushion beside me. He wraps his arms around me, hugging me tightly, and whispers against my scalp. “We are only a phone call away.”
“I know, Dad. I’ll be fine.” I turn to my mom, who stands tight-lipped and silent by the front door. “I’ll come over every Sunday for dinner.”
She stiffens her body slightly when I hug her before saying, “What about dinner on Friday?”
I rest my hand on her arm, rubbing it softly as she fights to hold the tears rimming her lids at bay. “How about next week. I really want to take the time to get this mess organized.”
She dabs her right eye with the side of her hand and produces a forced smile. “Well, alright.”
Her stiff posture and the fact that she’s fighting like hell not to cry are telling. She misses me already but will never say it, preferring to stay strong and seemingly unbothered. But I know her, deep down inside, she’s melting down.
I grip her biceps and hold her at arm’s length. “I won’t be far away. You’ll still see me.”
“Well, the house will definitely feel empty without you.”
My dad clears his throat. “Umm, hello, husband here. You won’t be alone.” He waves his hand in the air.
She shakes her head. “Oh, please. It’s not like you’re going to watch Lifetime movies with me or go underwear shopping.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course, I will. You just have to ask.”
Mom and I exchange knowing glances. We let him come with us once when I needed bras. He kept holding the bras up to his chest and asking us how they looked. It was so embarrassing.
Dad strolls over and stands beside her in the doorway. “Come on. Let’s leave her be so that she can get settled.”
My mom gives me one last hug and a kiss on the cheek before leaving. Once they are gone, I lock the door and lean against the partition. The small camel-colored leather sectional calls me to it for a nap, but I have so much to do.
I remove two books, Frat Row by Krista Turner Clark and Creep by Brooke Montoya, from the top of the box sitting onthe couch cushion and place them on the end table beside the lamp. I only keep two books at a time and don’t buy more until I’ve read and donated the ones I have. Some people think that’s weird, but I find, especially in my situation, that it’s actually convenient. The shelves can be used for something other than books.
A cloud of dust floats down from the top shelf of the bookcase as I swipe it with my hand.
Gross.
My toes crack as I shift up onto my tippy toes and run a cloth coated in Endust over the wooden surfaces, clearing them of a thin layer of filth. I organize my artwork on the bookshelves by size, with smaller, knick-knack-sized pieces on the top shelves and larger, more detailed pieces on the bottom. After that, I press a row of strip lights on timers around the perimeter of the bookcases on both sides, stand back and gaze at my natural wall of art in awe and wonder.
