I’m trying not to act brand new about it, but I’m brand new about it.
Lily’s mine again, and I know better than to say that out loud to her because she would remind me that she belongs to herself. Which is true. I respect that.
But she’s mine too.
A little bit...enough.
I thought coming home would feel easy after the Bahamas, but her vacation glow didn’t even survive one full workday. We were on a video call last night, and she had that look on her face again. Tired eyes. Hair pulled up. Laptop open. Dinner untouched beside her.
She said she was fine, but she was lying.
I didn’t push, because I’m learning. But I watched her rub her temple while she talked about some employee relations meeting that should have been an email, and I wanted to reach through the phone and close her laptop myself.
She doesn’t want that promotion.
Deep down, I don’t think she wants that job at all.
What she wants is Lit with Lily. That’s when she lights up. I saw it at the resort when she painted on the terrace. I saw it at the market when she talked to that vendor about colors and brushstrokes and women needing to be painted resting more often.
That version of Lily was peaceful.
Then she came home and went right back to carrying everybody else’s problems.
I sit back on my couch and stare at the ceiling.
There has to be a way for her to do Lit with Lily full time...Not eventually. As soon as possible.
She needs real space. Not her garage half-swallowed by tables and paint supplies. Not a van full of things she has to load, unload, and pretend don’t wear her out.
She needs somewhere that gives back to her for once.
I sit up slowly, nodding my head.
That’s what she needs.
I call Zea because she’s the only person I know who will tell me the truth 100% of the time. Also, she likes Lily enough to care if I mess this up.
She steps into the empty space and looks around with her nose turned up. “This smells like dust and mildew.”
“It’s empty. That’s why we’re here.”
“It’s giving abandoned hopes and dreams.”
I look around again, trying to see what she sees. The floors need work, and the walls are plain white, but the windows are huge. Light pours in from the front, and there’s enough room for tables, shelves, storage, maybe a little check-in counter near the door.
I can see it. Easels lined up. Paintings on the wall. Lily at the front of the room, smiling that bright teaching smile she gets when somebody surprises themselves.
“It’s got potential,” I tell her.
Zea walks to the middle of the room and spins in a slow circle. “Potential is what people say when they’re trying to talk themselves into making a bad decision.”
I ignore that. She’s not wrong, but I’m not in the mood to let her be right.
“She could hold classes here. Way more than she can do now. No more hauling tables and chairs in and out of her van all the time. She could keep supplies here, have shelves along that wall, maybe cabinets in the back.”
Zea turns toward me with her arms folded. “Did she say she wanted a studio?”
I walk toward the back, pretending I don’t hear her. There’s a smaller room behind the main space, big enough for storage and maybe an office. Lily could have a desk back here. A place for scheduling, supplies, whatever else she does that I didn’t even know about until she told me over smoothies.
