Page 49 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“Oh, look, her boy-toy will help her with the business.” Mom adds sarcastically, scoffing strongly.
“Love, I already said—” Dad’s voice always goes ignored by her, and she speaks over him.
“You don’t even have the decency to tell me the rumors are wrong. You had it all with Lorenzo and left him because of a slip-up, and here you are. You don’t know how many women that man has slept with, all the diseases he could have given you just because you wanted some dollars thrown your way—”
“Mom!” With a firm voice, Adam threatens, but I just shake my head at what she’s saying.
“All I’ve done is shape myself to your will and you still don’t know the slightest bit about me.” I mumble. “Am I even your daughter anymore?”
“I don’t know. Am I even your mom if you don’t respect the ground that I raised you on?” As if my heart couldn’t be torn open with greater force, I hear those words and understand my error. I’m not her daughter, but a plagiarized piece of Adam’s line-art, the shadow she tried to force into my frame. I grab the purse I carried around and swing it onto my shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Send me the bills that I have to pay to my address.”
“I asked you a question—”
“Mija, stay here.” Dad tries to reason, interrupting Mom’s words, but I shake my head as I move towards the entrance door.
“I’ve tried to be a wonderful daughter, but if our relationship is so fragile that a minor problem destroys it, I don’t want to try anymore.” I shrug at her words, feigning indifference.My life can’t stay like this, and though leaving her causes me pain because she was my initial anchor, I’m done fighting for something that has no future. “If being your daughter means not being true to myself, then we better leave it like this.”
“How dare you—? Veronica, you go past that door and I will vow to never talk to you ever again!” Mom shouts behind my back and just when I reach the door, I hear a plate crashing on the side of the wall. Shattered pieces scatter across the floor, but I still abstain myself from repairing what she broke. She destroyed me first, after all.
The cameras begin their assault of flashes as I leave the restaurant, but despite the overwhelming urge to cry, I won’t give them that spectacle. Instead, I raise a defiant hand, obscuring my face from their lenses, the same questions echoing in the air.
What happened to Nathan Calderwood?
Are you on good terms with Jane Rae?
Are you two still together?
“Please, just let me pass through. I don’t want to answer questions.” I speak in a tone high enough to be heard on top of the flashing of cameras.
My eyes can barely open because of the brightness, but the paparazzi plead. They want to know more. They don’t relent.
“I said I won’t be answering questions, so move.” I shove past anyone in my way, sprinting down a solitary road to my car. Safe inside, the story Nathan told me resurfaces... the articles I read confirm this is how his sister Lucy was lost. She must have felt the same terror I do now, hounded by cameras like a deer caught in headlights.
My heart pounds a frantic rhythm as I enter the road, and despite the desperate urge, tears remain trapped, a painful knot in my throat. Anxiety and fear shadow my steps until I’m certain I’m no longer followed. It’s only then that I allow myself to pull over, park, and release the long-held sigh.
Going back to my place could mean seeing them there, so I unlock my phone to check if Zeke or Alessia could take me into any of their houses. However, the silenced phone welcomes me with seven missed calls from Nathan and a plethora of texts.
From: Nathan.
I have to get on a plane in two hours. I’m going back to Los Angeles to sort out the mess I’ve made.
Pick up the phone. I have something to tell you.
Where are you? I am scared.
Since you’re not picking up the phone, let me tell you what I’ve been planning. You can go with me, mend your reputation once again and see what we can do to take legal action against the malicious articles.
An hour. Please. Pick up.
I never meant to cause you any pain, and I mean it when I say I love you. You’re the only woman that I have ever loved.
I’m sorry for hurting you.
I’m getting on the plane. I’m sorry once again. The offer is up for whenever you want to run away from this mess.
Horrid at goodbyes, I am, and I don’t reply to his texts even though the hour shows that it’s been six hours since he had contacted me. While a part of me still feels resentment for the significant parts of his life he concealed, the reality of his departure causes a deep, burning ache. It’s a persistent sting I can’t seem to soothe. This is supposedly the best path for both of us, but at what cost? What flaw existed in what we had before external forces shattered it?
