Page 8 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

"And now you're following your own path." Emma runs her hand along the dresser's mid-century curves. "Starting with furniture that would give Margaret Walker a stroke."

I dip my brush back in the paint. "Think his mother's already called to report that Ollie's wearing the dinosaur shirt again?"

"The one with glitter scales?" Emma grins. "The one you found at that street fair? God, I love your quirky style."

"The very one that clashes with the Preston-Walker family aesthetic."

Emma starts working on the dresser's other side. Her brush strokes are confident and artistic. Mine are still hesitant, like I'm waiting for someone to tell me I'm doing it wrong. I used to have that creative confidence. I’m working on getting it back, one restoration project at a time.

"You know what I love about this place?" She gestures around my half-furnished apartment with her brush. "It feels like you."

"You mean it's a mess?"

"Ha! I mean it's alive. That mausoleum on Park Avenue? That wasn't you. Those white sofas you couldn't sit on? That kitchen you couldn't cook in? That wasn't living."

My phone buzzes. I flip it over and see that it's Marcus. I'm sure he's calling with some passive-aggressive edict. I ignore it.

"Speaking of cooking," Emma continues, "when are you launching your graphic design site? That logo you made for Dad's new delivery menu? He's gotten so many compliments. He can probably refer you to half of Chinatown and pay your rent for a year."

"I don't know." I focus on a particularly stubborn spot of old varnish. "Marcus always said?—"

"Marcus always said a lot of things." Emma's voice carries an edge I rarely hear. "He said you couldn't cook, but your dumplings are better than our prep cook's. He said you weren't business-minded, but you rebuilt Golden Dragon's entire brand in a weekend."

"It's different now. I have Ollie to think about."

"Exactly. You have Ollie. Not Marcus. Not his opinions." She sets down her brush. "You can work while he's at school. Build your portfolio. Be the mom who shows her son that starting over is brave, not broken."

My phone buzzes again. Marcus. This time it's a text.

Ollie told me he doesn't like the public school you have him in in Brooklyn. We need to discuss the private school in TriBeCa if you want to keep him in school downtown. That PS won't cut it.

"See?" I hold up the phone. "Still trying to control every detail."

"Then it's a good thing this dresser is just the beginning." Emma picks up her brush again. "Next week, we're painting your whole bedroom that shade of pink Marcus hated."

I set my phone face-down. "Tell me about your students instead. How's the mural coming along?"

"Nice deflection." Emma starts on the dresser's delicate trim. "Back to my point. You're already getting freelance work. Your Charleston friend's coffee shop. That new yoga studio in Park Slope. Dad's probably going to recommend you to, like, six other restaurant owners. You know the Chinese all band together. You'll have more Chinatown work than you'll know what to do with."

"Favors for friends don't equal real work."

"Those are paying clients who love your work." She pushes her glasses up with her wrist, leaving a smudge of green on her nose. "Remember that girl who designed all the flyers for music shows back in Charleston? The one who had a different color in her hair every week? I miss her sometimes."

The mention of music shows makes my stomach twist. I focus on evening out my brush strokes.

"I'm not that girl anymore."

"No, you're not. You're stronger now." Emma stands back to survey our work. "But maybe it's time to let a little bit of her out. The part that took risks. The one who believed in herself before Marcus convinced her not to."

"You know what?" I hold up one of the vintage drawer pulls. "I think Ollie should help me put these on. He loves anything that sparkles, no matter what his grandmother thinks."

Emma's smile spreads slowly and instantly fills me with warmth. "Now that sounds like my friend from Charleston."

The dresser's starting to transform, old wood coming alive under the bold color. Like it just needed someone to see past what it used to be, to what it could become.

"Hey Em?" I carefully set down my brush. "Thank you. Not just for helping with this, but for... you know."

"For dragging you to Brooklyn Flea when you were hiding in that sterile Upper East Side tomb?" She bumps my shoulder with hers. "For showing you that Park Slope exists? For convincing you that life's too short for beige?"

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