Page 120 of Muddy Messy Love

I flash him dark don’t-tempt-me eyes, then release him with a smirk. “See you after work?”

He nods once, trailing fingertips down my arm. “My place this weekend?”

“Sounds perfect.”

As I hike home from the tram, the postman buzzes to a stop at Beth’s letterbox on his motorbike, hovering like a fluorescent wasp as he drops mail through the slot. He’s typically long gone by the time I arrive from work, but I clock the anomaly as a positive sign.

The cheque from Green Bird Gallery is due any day. Then I can count my chickens and start making plans. I could pay for uni—rent my own place when Beth returns—restock studio supplies. God knows I need them now.

The postman scoots away before I reach the box, but sure enough, the sole letter he left is addressed to me.

I dash inside and upstairs with my stomach in flutters, taking a seat at the end of my bed. The envelope is thin and crisp in my hands as I stare at my name and memorise this moment. With a Beth breath, I rip it open and then fall onto my back with a goofy grin, holding the cheque up high. Yellow light from the pendant above streams through the paper, turning it translucent with shadows of pulp, but the dollar amount remains, and it’s everything I’d hoped for.

Twenty-two thousand, five hundred and thirty-two dollars.

The fruits of my labour. The product of all my hard work. But more than that, it’s proof. Proof I have something to offer the world, and that I might belong here. Proof that thingscango right. Multiple things. All at once. I drum my feet against the floor and squeal.

This is what happy feels like.

I stare for a good ten minutes before heading downstairs to start dinner. Not ready to let go, I bring the cheque with me and devise a plan to copy and frame it, along with Jack Larson’s review. They can hang pride of place on my studio wall and nudge me along whenever I doubt myself or life again.

The sweet aroma of puree pumpkin saturates the air thirty minutes later, and Mum appears in the kitchen. “Do you have enough for two?”

Throwing a glance back over my shoulder from the cooktop, I nod. “Sure.”

Mum’s civility still jars me. At first, her one-eighty was suspect, but it’s growing on me. In fact, I think my wish materialised. After Green Bird Gallery, I think she finally sees me differently—better—worthy of her respect and love.

A tight smile flattens her lips as she climbs onto an island stool and adjusts her floaty dress to cover her crossed knees. “How was your day?”

“Fine, thanks. Yours?” I swap the wooden spoon out for a ladle and kill the gas burner.

Clasping her hands on the granite, Mum shrugs. “Pleasant enough.” She nudges her chin towards the bowls I’m filling. “Smells nice.”

I slide a steaming bowl of bright-orange soup towards her, then hitch up onto a barstool opposite with my own. We haven’t eaten together once since she arrived back from the middle of fucking nowhere, and it triggers memories of my early childhood—ones with fuzzy edges and a pinkish hue. Once upon a time, this was the norm; only, four of us sat at a rustic pine table and Mum still bothered to cook.

Mum sips her first bite from the edge of the silver spoon, and I eagerly await her reaction—praying it meets her lofty standards. I’m no master chef, but my pumpkin soup slaps harder than she ever did. Trust me, I remember. Mum says nothing but takes another mouthful. An encouraging sign. “You like?”

She nods. “Not bad. Thank you.”

Relief finds me, and I taste my own. “Yum,” I hum before noticing my cheque lying in the centre of the island. Discreetly, I drag it closer, then flip it face down. Not that I think Mum would steal from me, but I prefer to keep my business private.

We eat in silence, the occasional polite smile drifting over the island. So far as meals go, this one is superficial and awkward as fuck, but we need to start somewhere. When finished, Mum stands and offers to clear the island. I thank her and watch curiously as she loads the dishwasher and wipes the granite until it gleams. Again, memories surface and hope shimmers.

“Would you like some dessert?”

The offer almost knocks me off my stool, but I clamber to keep the shock from my face.Now she’s feeding me. “Ah…yes, please.”

Mum smiles again, removes two fresh bowls from the cupboard, loads them with cookie-dough ice cream, hands me mine, and resumes her seat.

“Thanks.” The little girl stuck inside my heart jumps up and down with glee, clapping her small hands. But to hide my smile, I quickly stuff my mouth full.

“I’m proud of you,” Mum suddenly blurts, and my eyes snap to hers. She continues with one graceful hand animating her words. “The show. Your success.” Discomfort swims in the shadows beneath her compliment, but I choke up nonetheless.

Tears sting as I clear my throat. “Thanks, Mum,” I rasp. “That means so much to me.” Mum dips her chin like a curtsey, then takes another bite.

I should be next to break the silence. She’s extended an olive branch. Now I should do the same. “How are things going for you?”

“Oh,” Mum says with a dismissive wave. “You don’t want to hear about that.”

---