Page 28 of Blindside Love

“She’s a mom,” I say, watching my mother’s face absolutely light up—definitely not the reaction I was expecting.

“How wonderful! Does she have a son or a daughter? Oh, I just love kids.”

“Her name is Addison. She’s five. She’s a spunky thing, just like her mama.” I smile, thinking about Ellie and Addison. They’re a fun little duo.

“Well, I hope to meet her sometime, Trevor. Bring them to dinner sometime.”

“I’ll ask, but she’s got a lot going on. She’s in the middle of a divorce with an absolute douche.”

“Shame. But, Trevor, life isn’t about knowing exactly what we should be doing at all times. Sometimes, it’s the messy moments, the moments where we believe we are doing exactly what we shouldn’t be doing when we find ourselves in the perfect moment, like some beautiful mistake.”

Before I can even think to respond, my dad comes out of his office, he’s nothing but impeccable at timing. We spent the rest of the night watching hockey reruns before it’s time to watch Survivor or whatever the new show is now.

I left with a full belly, more food than I know what to do with, and a smile, because for the first time in a while, I realized that maybe it’s okay not to have everything figured out.

Chapter 11

Ellie

It’s seven in the morning, and I have unloaded the dishwasher, cleaned my entire apartment, and folded the three loads of laundry I’ve been neglecting since Addy got home last Sunday. I guess this is what happens when you wake up at four in the morning on a Wednesday. Even worse is the fact that I could have slept in since there’s no school today.

I’m not sure what woke me up, but as soon as my eyes opened, I was wide awake. When I looked at the clock, my first thought was that somehow I slept all day, but Addy is here, and she doesn’t sleep past seven-thirty usually, so that was out of the question. Once I was awake, though, there was no going back to sleep.

I refused to get out of bed until after five, it seemed to be a more reasonable time. I stayed in bed scrolling through my phone and watching reruns of NCIS; it’s my comfort show. Tony and Ziva are perfect, but something about Gibbs is just *chef’s kiss.*

But now I’m watching the sunrise, drinking coffee, and feeling restless. Almost antsy. Then it hits me, clear as day, like a freight train.

I want to paint again.

It’s more than that, though. It’s like I can see it, imagine it, almost feel in my bones exactly what I want to paint.

Without another thought, I’ve refilled my coffee and am walking down the hall to my makeshift studio. Even though I haven’t painted in this apartment, Natalie set it up exactly like I had it at the old house, so my body is moving on autopilot. I practically float around the room, turning on the music and lighting a candle before I move on to setting up the canvas and mixing the oil paints.

I enjoy painting with all different types of paint, but to this day, there’s nothing quite like using oil paints. Don’t get me wrong, I still paint using watercolors and acrylics, but I always go back to oil painting. I feel like I can better capture my emotions in my painting this way, like it’s easier to blend the colors, replicating the image in my mind. The brush transfers the image filled with color, passion, and so much vibrancy onto the blank canvas.

The second my brush touches the canvas, I feel my body relax. I’m no longer thinking about what my next move is or what chore I need to do next. I’m not stressing about my failed marriage or the hot guy next door, who I had the hottest kiss of my life with almost a week ago and who I’ve been hiding from like a wimp ever since.

My body has taken over as I listen to the music and realize for the first time in ages, my mind is quiet.

I don’t know how long has passed before I step back, set my palette and brush down, and take a moment to admire my work. I must’ve been at it for a while, though because my apartment is already bright from the sun, and my coffee is cold. I’ve always enjoyed my paintings, even though I know they’re nothing special, but this? This one surprised me. In the best way possible.

It’s a butterfly, but somehow, it’s so much more than that. It feels fresh and new, and it seems like I somehow fit the entire rainbow into it in the most serene way.

When did I start to paint with color again? When did I stop only seeing the world in shades of gray? In the last few months, I stopped finding joy in the little things like I used to. I didn’t want to find happiness in the colors around me, but now, something is different.

Looking at my painting, I see life, colors, and happiness radiating from it; all I can do is smile.

“Good morning, mama,” Addy’s little voice says from the doorway.

“Good morning, sweet girl. How’d you sleep?” I ask as she walks over to me, her sleepy eyes barely able to stay open.

I pick her up, relishing how her head rests on my shoulder, her little arms holding onto my neck as she hugs me back. I know these moments are short-lived, she won’t always want her mom to pick her up and hold her, so I try to soak it in as much as possible.

“Good. I had a dream about a unicorn! She was eating pancakes.” Addy giggles. “Did you paint the pretty picture, Mommy?”

“I did. I just finished actually.”

“It’s pretty. I like it,” she says as she stares over my shoulder at it.

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