I’ve come a long way since I did this painting. I’ve come into my own as an artist and as a man, but looking at this portrait reminds me of all the mistakes I’ve made getting here.
As I make my way upstairs, I catch a glimpse of Dani sitting on the floor in one of the bedrooms. She’s looking through a thick book and rubbing her finger back and forth across her brow.
If you look at Dani on social media, you’d think she’s incredibly put-together and that she eats, sleeps, and breathes her brand. You’d think that nothing and no one affects her, that she’s a one-woman army who doesn’t need or want anyone to stand behind her. Maybe those things are true now, but I remember a different version of her.
I remember the Dani who felt deeply. The one who was unapologetic about who and what she loved. The one who appreciated adventure.
When I see her with her girls, I know that version still exists, I’m just not privy to it.
It shouldn’t eat me up inside. I’ve been outside her circle of trust for far longer than I was ever inside it. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
It bothers me that we never had a real chance.
Tanya’s letter said that I don’t feel I deserve good things. It’s hard to feel deserving of good things when the people ten times better than you get cut down. My aunt had her life snatched away by a reckless driver. One of my best friends’ life was cut short by a stray bullet. An autoimmune disease forced my sister to reimagine her dance dreams. And then there’s me. I fucked up when I was younger, and Tanya handed me a second chance. I took the risky route in school and pursued my art dreams instead of the guaranteed future, yet I still ended up being successfulenough to ensure my family’s comfort for life. It doesn’t seem right. Why me? Why not them?
If there’s any real justification for how fortunate I’ve been, I’d say it has to be because life is making up for playing the cruelest trick it could: putting Dani in mine before either of us was ready.
Watching her now, uninhibited with her emotions, feels like a rare gift.
You didn’t earn this.
That realization hits me like a ton of bricks. This peek behind Dani’s curtain wasn’t given, it was stolen. Shame washes over me as I purposefully slam my hand against the railing, wordlessly announcing my presence.
Dani snaps up from her bent-forward position. I catch the look of indecision on her face. She can’t hide what she was looking at and wipe away her tears at the same time. She has to choose one: hide her memories or hide her emotions.
Her decision is made when I enter the room, her hand already lowering from her face back to her side, the book still in her lap.
“What’d you find?” I ask.
“It’s, um”—she pauses to clear any sign of emotion out of her voice—“it’s a photobook. I found it on her desk.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Can I look at it with you?”
She rushes to stand and practically slams the book against my chest. “Yeah, here you go. I’m gonna look at the other rooms.”
She brushes past me, and I sigh in frustration. “Dani. Stop.”
Surprisingly, she does, but she doesn’t turn to face me.
“We don’t have time for this. Tanya meant too much to both of us for us to fuck this up over our shit.”
“Our shit? We don’t have any shit.”
“So you keep telling me,” I counter.
She spins around, meeting my vexed expression with her own indignation. “What is it you want from me?”
She’s definitely not ready for that conversation.
“I know we don’t have the best track record, but I’ve never had animosity toward you. If I’ve done something to you, can you please put me out of my misery and tell me? Give me a chance to make it right.”
She doesn’t slap me or turn and run away, so I take a small step forward, and then another. It’s a desperate move but that’s exactly what I am—a desperate man wanting to understand how we got here. I’m not without fault for our missed opportunities, but she was the one who reduced us to strangers three years ago.
Why am I being punished for her decision?
Her eyes soften, but I don’t dare make a move. She put us here, so she needs to be the one to set us right.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice softer than a whisper.
