Page 5 of Fractured Fear

I set my phone down, finish my smoothie, and go over what needs to be done today. Focusing on the things I can control because I can’t control this fucking creep texting me.

I need to order more clay, take inventory, figure out what’s wrong with pottery wheel number three, contact my agent aboutmy next show to see what she needs from me, check in with Iris at Abstract Dreams, my gallery, and see what has sold and what needs to sell.

Okay, maybe thinking about my to-do list was a bad idea.

Deciding I need to clear my head, I get up from my table, throw away my cup, and make my way outside.

Headphones in,Goldby Kiiara playing, I begin my run home. This time around, my mind still isn’t clear.

I miss Abuela.

Abuela spent her life living and breathing art. She studied and traveled all over the world to learn different painting styles and techniques from whoever would teach her. She said there was only so much she could learn in a classroom and the best way to learn was to go out there and try. After her travels, she settled in New York. Chelsea to be exact. She bought a space with the money she earned selling her paintings, opened a studio, and lived in the apartment upstairs.

Traveling around the world with a child wasn’t easy for Abuela, but she made sure Mom had everything she needed and was able to experience different cultures. Mom tells the story differently, she says Abuela is too flighty.Wastoo flighty. Mom describes her childhood as chaotic, but I think it sounds like a dream. Different countries, online school, art all day, different foods. Sign me up.

Once Mom was old enough, she cut off contact with Abuela and settled in Houston, where I grew up. Then Mom had me and as soon as I was old enough, she would send me off to wherever Abuela was at the time. I wanted to stay with her year-round, but Mom wouldn’t allow it.

My father was more of a ghost than a man. Never met him. Never saw him. I don’t think my life would have been better if he was present. He clearly didn’t want me, and all I got from him was my last name, but even that wasn’t given to me by his choice.

I can’t ever tell Mom where I am. If Abuela had left Mom the studio then she could have sold it and kept the money; I know she would be pissed if she knew she lost out on a large payday. Mom didn’t know where Abuela ended up before she died, and now I intend on keeping it that way.

When I get back,I pass Abstract Dreams and go through the glass door of Clay Creations, my studio. I take in the space that has seen me through these last three years. The entire front is made up of windows which let in as much natural light as possible, and white walls to help reflect the luminescence and make the space feel bigger. Unstained, floating wood shelves cover most of the walls, some filled with other artists’ finished work, some contain pieces that are still wet or aren’t quite done. Green pottery wheels are lined up in two rows on the right; three large canvas worktables and a wedging table on the left. It’s early and no one has arrived to work on their pots, so all the stools are stacked by the worktables. In the back is the kiln room, damp room, an overflowing storage closet also known as “the abyss,” and bathroom. I’m still in awe of how my vision has come together and that I get to be here every day.

Abuela’s studio used to be one big space, but I cut it in half and made one side the gallery. I also renovated the apartment upstairs at the same time. Abuela left me an overabundance of money from the sale of most of her final paintings. Her attorney said she knew I wouldn’t be able to part with her paintings after she passed so she did it for me which made me feel even more guilty. I didn’t see her in her last few years of life. We talkedweekly, but I didn’t make the trip out here. I lethimconvince me to not visit.

Another thing he took from me.

“Hey, boss!” Hayes greets me. A little too chipper this early, but that’s Hayes. He’s a sweetheart to the core. He’s only eighteen-years-old, just graduated, and comes in early on Saturdays even though I always tell him he can sleep in. His birthday is at the end of the summer and I plan on having a little celebration for him with the other artists and Iris. I know he likes her and is too afraid to make a move. He’s still trying to get comfortable with his growing teenage body. I swear he shot up six inches over the last few months. He has that boy next door, blonde hair, blue eyes look going for him. I may have given up on relationships for myself, but dammit this boy deserves happiness.

“Morning, Hayes! What’re you doing here so early?” I try to smile and sound excited even though I’m dead tired and need more food after my second run.

“I wanted to get a head start on counting inventory and cleaning the studio. I swept last night but you know how it is. Nonstop clay dust.”

My shoulders instantly sag with overwhelming relief. I can check those off my list.

“You’re a godsend! Seriously. Where do you hide your angel wings?” I tease.

He blushes and tries to hide it with a snigger. Poor kid isn’t used to being appreciated. He’s never confirmed or specifically said, but I assume his parents aren’t supportive of him working here. Knowing what that’s like, I do my best to encourage him. I hope he’s happy here. I want Clay Creations to be a safe place for other people as well as myself.

“Nah. I hide my horns under my halo,” he jokes.

I chuckle and shake my head at him. Hayes doesn’t know how to take a compliment.

“I’m going to head upstairs for a bit. I have to spend half the day next door with Iris. Want me to bring down a cup of coffee when I come back?”

He lights up at my offer. “Yes, please. I’ll wipe down all the wheels for a cup.”

“You got it.” I smile back at him and head out of the studio. When I approach the stairs just a few feet away, I groan and contemplate crawling up to my apartment.

When I signed the papers Abuela’s lawyer gave me, I had mixed feelings about renovating the apartment, but renovations are just what I needed. A clean slate. It used to be just like downstairs, one big open space. I converted it into a three-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment. The front door opens to a large kitchen that I rarely use, and a spacious living area. The cozy, light gray sectional might be my favorite part about the room. The floor to ceiling windows give the room an inviting feel as well.

I wanted to keep things simple, but the designer convinced me that I deserved a nice space where I can relax. I caved to some of her ideas like the marble countertops, the over-the-top en suite, and the obnoxious walk-in closet to the master bedroom. I admit that the luxuries have made this place feel more like a place I can call “home.”

Once I’m through the front door, I strip my clothes on my way to the bathroom, not caring where they land. Tomorrow Spencer can deal with that shit. I let my hair down, walk straight into the shower, and turn it on not caring that the water will initially freeze my tits off. Just another way to wake myself up. Again.

After going through the motions for the rest of my routine, I get to the annoying part of picking out an outfit. I try not to careand just grab and go, but I can’t. Sometimes I still think I need to look a certain way, but I remind myself thatheisn’t here.

Healways said that my hips were too wide, my bra made my back look pudgy, my legs were too long, or my gut was too pronounced. At the time I told myself thathejust didn’t want me to feel embarrassed, but now I see his comments for the ugliness that they were.

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