Page 6 of Late Bloomer
I deferred my dreams, months ticking by, until those dreams faded and complacency disguised itself as comfort. The idea of being with someone, even someone who never really cared, was less terrifying than taking a step that would drop me all alone in a great big city.
Because, really, why give up a job—despite the demotion from server to sidewalk cone—and why throw a wrench into (what I thought was) a perfectly fine relationship with Miles? Those tiny questions always stopped me if I thought too much about a change.
But somewhere between the shitty job and the shittier boyfriend, I lost sight of the fact that I wanted change to be… happy.
“I want to use it for a fresh start,” I blurt out, eyes going wide as I look at my sisters.
“That’s great,” Olivia, the oldest and far maturest of the three of us, says. “What would that look like?”
I gnaw on my lip as I think. “I… I want to be an artist. I want to seriously do it. I want to paint my textiles and sell my designs.”
I frolic and play in every medium from charcoals to clay,but my hands are never happier than when I’m painting fabrics and materials and using them to craft something stunning and wearable.
My favorite is shoes. I have hundreds of notebooks filled with sketches of shoes, hand-painted with vivid designs. Mules and clogs and flats and boots. Concentric patterns, abstract swirls, vibrant scenes of birds-of-paradise like rainbows at the tips of someone’s toes. An infinite canvas exists with each step someone takes.
“Opie, that’s amazing,” Ophelia says. “We want that for you. You should do it.”
“Maybe I’ll finally move to New York,” I say, sitting up straighter—this idea, this new life, gaining momentum. “Get an apartment. Hell, maybe buy something? Use it as a studio? Sell my work?”
My sisters go silent at that.
“What?” I ask, catching a glance between them.
“Why does it have to be New York?” Olivia asks gently.
I shrug. “It’s what artists do. They move to New York and are constantly and devastatingly inspired by the energy of the city.”
“I mean… maybe some artists are. But aren’t you more inspired by nature?”
“She has a point,” Ophelia chimes in. “When Mom and Dad took us to New York when we were teenagers you complained the entire time about how much you missed trees, and your favorite thing we did was walk through the flower market.”
They aren’t wrong; I do tend to prefer nature. Somethingabout the colors and textures of the wild—the smell of summer heat on grass or the first gentle fall of snow—makes me feel peaceful. At ease. Like my brain can slow down and catch its breath.
But when I think of artists—the kind I admire, the kind I want to be—they’re rebels and revolutionaries, their work small acts of protest, the emotion of art grinding against the cold anonymity of large cities.
And I want to belong to a group like that. I’m constantly trying to define myself, to fit nicely and neatly into the boxes and spaces I attempt to occupy.
All I’ve ever really wanted to do was belong.
Somewhere.
Anywhere.
“You don’t have to make any decisions tonight,” Olivia says, picking up on my runaway train of thoughts like she’s always able to do. “Just something to think about. And that’s the amazing thing about money, it gives you time to think. The space to plan.”
I nod, trying to pull myself back into the moment. I know Olivia is right, but my restless brain loves latching onto an idea, turning it over and over and demanding a planright now. It’s hard to shut it up.
I steal my phone back from Ophelia, heart bottoming out when it buzzes with a new text from Laney:
I’m coming over! Wanna celebrate with you!
Then another:
Miles wants to come too! Let’s party!
“Can I sleep here?” I ask Olivia, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“Yeah, why?”
