Page 17 of All Your Firsts

“And I’m sick of listening to you bitch and moan.”

“Then give me something to do.”

“No.”

“God, I can’t stand you,” I say as I rip my notebook and pencil off the counter and stomp to the waiting area.

I gaze at the woman holding up the glass table that mocks me. I’m tempted to paint clothes on her when Vic’s busy. With how vindictive and petty I’m feeling, I might just do it. Maybe add a couple of dicks, too.

I look up, and the bastard stares at me with a smirk. He catches me looking all the time with that same stupid smirk that’s one step from a blinding and malicious smile.

She’s definitely getting painted.

I open my notepad that I have yet to use and go to work.

What I love about art is how you can express and release your emotions, allowing them to flow freely from within and onto thecanvas. Right now, irritation and competitiveness are the dominant emotions coursing through me because of his dismissal.

I was only a child when I discovered my deep passion for art, and it only grew once I started college. Professor Skies was so patient and had such a guiding light. It was the first time I felt liberated, no longer stifled by my father’s critiques of my paintings. Then, I received a request from a fellow art enthusiast to commission a piece, which cemented my decision. I would pursue my passion regardless of the cost.

My professor taught me to ask the client every question imaginable and watch their movements, what they wore, and their personality. All this plays a role and Vic’s missing that one important step.

Again, his design is good, more than good, but sometimes it needs more of a delicate touch. She wore a pink dress and rhinestone sandals with a bag and sunglasses to match. She seemed delicate and sweet even when she continued to turn down his design.

Vic’s client walks back in as I add the final details to the petals and the tiny jewels sporadically placed throughout.

She looks over his design with a critical eye, and I see the small frown form between her brows. “This is good, but I don’t know. Maybe I should just wait.”

I stand and walk over. I understand this is highly inappropriate, and I’m crossing boundaries, but honestly, I don’t give a shit.

I want to feel like I have a purpose while I’m stuck here. Hopefully, I can negotiate a deal with him once he realizes my value.

“I have something that might work,” I say and receive narrowed eyes from Vic.

“Oh, this is cute. I like the jewels. They could really pop if we did them in different colors, right?” She looks over at me, and I look at Vic. In an instant, my palms turn clammy and perspire. I turn my attention back to her when Vic remains silent.

“I think it will, especially with your skin tone.”

“Right, I was thinking the same thing. I like this.”

I give Vic a very satisfying fuck you smile and walk away.

Rosie, one.

Vic, zero.

Silence fills the car, adding to the already tense ambience as Vic and I drive back to his house.

I hoped to go out and celebrate my new job with a little window shopping and some kind of chocolate dessert, but he firmly rejected my request with a resounding no. That word seems to be his all-time favorite, always on the tip of his tongue. After winning the client over with my design, his demeanor toward me turned as cold as ice. I’m not surprised. I know I stepped on his toes.

The only saving grace for tonight is the comforting weight of the cardboard box in my hands. I rip the box open with too much enthusiasm and look at my shiny new phone. As I turn it on and go through the prompts to set it up, I catch sight of Vic walking by. Dressed in boots, dark jeans, and a black hoodie; he’s looking like nothing but trouble. I run to my door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” he murmurs but doesn’t turn around.

“So you get to go out, but I have to stay in on a Saturday night?”

“Yep. Stay inside. Don’t go anywhere or answer the door. I’m setting the house alarm when I leave. There’s takeout in the kitchen.”

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