Page 24 of The Bitter Rival

I’m fortunate to be healthy and surrounded by friends and family who care for Austin and me. Bailey has been a godsend as well as Mrs. Samuels, my kind, retired neighbor. She’s been so thoughtful to look in on Austin when I work and make sure he eats. He feels comfortable knowing she’s next door, and I know if he needs anything, he won’t hesitate to ask her.

Margaret Samuels is a kind, beautiful woman who seems to have a soft spot in her heart for Austin and me. She’s been divorced for many years, and her only son lives out of state. I often feel I can see her mind drift to a time where it was just her and her son when she watches Austin and me together. From what I can gather, her ex-husband left the picture soon after her son was born.

She often declares that her son, Declan, and I would make “a cute couple.” However, I’ve lived next door to Margaret for over ten years, and to this day, I’ve never met him. The only pictures I’ve seen are faded snapshots about her home from when he was young. The first time I saw them, I had to do a double-take. It was like looking at the childhood photos of my brothers. The similarity was uncanny. I guess Irish boys all look alike at that age. But this isn’t an avenue I’m interested in pursuing. I’ve suffered enough rejections from the men I’ve dated after my divorce to last a lifetime. I certainly don’t want to do anything to cause my relationship with Margaret to sour.

There haven’t been many relationships with men since Rick. The few men I dared introduce to Austin didn’t stick around long. I no longer bring anyone around him. I don’t need Austin questioning where they went or why we aren’t friends any longer. My dating life isn’t worth the risk of affecting my son in a negative way. We’re doing okay as we are. I get my needs met and can focus on my work, my friends and family, and my son.

Rinsing off, I contemplate the last time Igot my needs met. It’s been difficult to not let my mind wander there often. It was the most passionate night of my life. Although I’d love to have another meaningless encounter that left me completely sated for weeks on end, knowing the potential for seeing Sebastian in the hospital has made this seem all sorts of wrong. There are way more negatives on this checklist than positives. Mind-blowing orgasms aside, he’s a cocky, rude, arrogant playboy. I’ve already survived one run-in with him, I’m not chancing a second. If only he hadn’t made me feel so-

“Mom, I’m hungry.”

“Oh, Austin, I’m sorry. I’m coming out.” Leave it to me to get lost in dirty thoughts in the shower.

Quickly toweling off, I throw on my robe and head to the kitchen. Plating baked spaghetti for Austin and myself, I inhale the rich blend of tomatoes and herbs. I can smell the delicate aromas despite being covered in two pounds of mozerella. One day, Austin is going to end up constipated with as much cheese as he consumes.

“Okay, dig in. Thank you for waiting for me,” I add. On occasion, I allow Austin to serve himself when I bring home takeout. Yet, with Luigi’s baked spaghetti, I learned the hard way. He practically ate the entire pan, leaving me a handful of pasta and a salad the last time. He has a limited palate. He enjoys chicken tenders, fish sticks, and anything covered in cheese. But Luigi’s is his favorite, and his eyes are always bigger than his stomach.

Twirling my decadent pasta around the tines of my fork, I watch as Austin pops up from the table toward the sink. “You’re done already?”He must have inhaled it.

“It was good, Mom.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, I’ll finish up here and join you in a bit.” This is our customary routine. When he doesn’t eat in his room, he tears through his meal so quickly I’m unsure how his tastebuds are in contact long enough for him to enjoy it. He’s in such a hurry to return to his drawing. I often finish my meal with a good book, perusing my phone for any fun posts on social media, or just enjoying the silence after a long day.

Placing my dishes in the sink and putting away the leftovers, I grab my chianti and head down the dark hallway toward Austin’sstudio. We live in an older home along Monument Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. There’s no way I could afford this without the money Rick provides each month, but it’s there to provide for Austin and me, and I’ve loved this home from the day I laid eyes on it.

The home is considered Colonial Revival in style. It’s a dark red brick with red-tinted mortar and round arches over the windows on the third floor. The exterior has two classical columns on the entrance to the porch, mimicking many of the other brownstones along the popular midtown location. The building was turned into a duplex some years back, and we rent the lower unit, which has a sitting room, a dining room, two bedrooms, and one bath. It’s small, but all we’ve ever needed.

Entering his modest space, I take a seat in the sling-back chair in the corner across from Austin’s twin bed. Looking from the bed to my overgrown child, I realize I probably need to upgrade. He’s pushing six feet already. He’d probably rather I stick to an extra-long twin versus a wider bed, as he has it pushed against the wall in the corner of his room to leave as much space as possible for his studio.

The walls of our entire home are painted an eggshell white with the exception of one. The wall directly in front of me, which abuts the door to Austin’s room, is more than likely several inches thicker than any other in the house. It isn’t a firewall or built to provide soundproofing but has too many layers of paint to count. Early on, it was evident Austin was not a fan of canvas and easel. I suppose it’s too restricting for him. He gravitates to painting directly on the wall. This made Rick crazy and honestly took me years to come to terms with, but it’s only a wall.

Sometimes he creates a portrait in the center of the wall. Occasionally, he groups a collection of different paintings. But most often, he creates a mural covering the entire wall with brilliant, rich color. After witnessing the uninhibited bliss that shone from my beautiful son’s eyes when he was in the throes of a new creation, my earlier frustrations faded away. Why on earth would I stop him from doing something that gave him such joy?

It saddens me when we paint over something he’s worked on so tirelessly. Austin seems to find peace in the process, having let go of his attachment to the production almost from the moment he lays down his brush. Pictures of his masterpieces hang throughout our humble abode. Reproductions. How I wish I could keep an original to cherish. Yet, this is how he works best, and I refuse to cage him. Bailey can occasionally get him to sketch or paint onto canvas, but this is usually if she takes him to the park or along the water. For now, I accept his gifts in the form they’re given.

Taking another sip of my wine, I close my eyes as the fruity chianti tickles my tongue and warms my throat. My cheeks warm, and I smile as I watch my son, curled up in his beanbag chair, sketching like his very existence depends on it. Glancing up, I tilt my head, trying to decipher the current work in progress. Austin’s work is vibrant. If I had to give a likeness, I’d probably say Van Gogh. Particularly the landscapes. There’s a movement to his work that draws the eye, wanting to learn more. It’d be wonderful to let others see what amazing talent my son possesses, but Austin is content to create. My pride shouldn’t make him uncomfortable. Instead, I bask in the glow of my private art show.

“It’s Friyay!” Erin calls out as we sift through the current x-ray orders awaiting us. This week has dragged on and on. I’m ready to get my party on.

“Man, I’m so jealous. You guys get to live it up, and I’m going to be here with Cliff all night,” Rhonda says, pointing to an older radiology tech who only arrived an hour ago and has already fallen asleep in the dark corner, light snores emanating from his overweight frame. “I can tell who’s going to be doing all the work around here.” She huffs, pointing her thumb to her chest and shaking her head.

“How do you put up with him?” Mike asks.

“Awe, he’s a good guy. He’ll step it up once I prod him or bribe him with food.” Rhonda giggles. The two have worked the same shift for years. Although she protests regarding missing out on the party, I have it on good authority she never joins the group out, opting for spending time with her family instead. “Oh, Jeff. I got you something. It’s in the bag over there on the counter.”

“Awe, thanks. You didn’t have to do that, Rhonda.”

“I know. It’s not much, but I wanted to help you celebrate.”

Everyone has their eyes glued to Jeff as he opens the bright red birthday gift bag and withdraws a card and a mug. He turns the mug for everyone to see a picture of Sammy Davis, Jr. with a balloon over his head that reads “The Candy Man can.” Everyone laughs, but I think my laughter is more at the realization only Jeff, Rhonda, Cliff, and myself are probably old enough to know who Sammy Davis, Jr. is.

“Only two more hours between me and clocking out. I can’t wait to get ready for the big night,” Jeff states with a huge smile. “Come on, Isabella. Let’s knock out these x-rays, so the time goes by faster.”

“You got it.” I grin at him.

“Hey, Kat. How are you?” I greet my favorite ER physician assistant.

“I’m good. I wanted to see if you were available to make a birthday cake for Grace. She’s turning one soon, and I’d love for you to make her cake if you’re up to it. My niece and nephew loved the last one you made.”

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