Page 25 of The Painter and His Poet

“Thank you,” I murmur, letting her words of love permeate the anger I feel at my dad for breaking her heart. Despite his flaws, of which he has many, she loved him, and she was devastated when he ended their marriage.

“So,haveyou made friends?Areyou happy here?” she persists, lifting her cup of chai latte to her lips and taking a sip.

“I’m happy,” I reply, not wanting to tell her the truth, or give her any reason to be worried about me, because despite being able to work on my art freely without my father’s constant disapproval, I’m lonely. So fucking lonely.

“Sterling,” she warns softly, knowing me only too well, “Please don’t try to protect my feelings. I know you. Tell me how you really feel.”

I could lie to her.

I could tell her I’ve made lots of friends who accept all that I am. I could say that I’m not tormented every day by the vision of a woman who I spent a few incredible hours with, and who is forever immortalised in my best pieces of art to date. I couldpretend that I’m as happy as she tells me she is, that I’m thriving in this incredible city so bustling with life, but it would all be a lie.

Instead, I scrape a hand over my face, and heave out a sigh, needing a moment to just sit with the truth. I still hold so much anger and hate towards my father, not just for hurting my mother, but for hurtingme. I’m not sure that I’ll ever be able to let that go, to forgive as easily as my mother seemingly has.

No matter how much I’ve tried, I can’t seem to shake the gut-wrenching rejection I’ve always felt from my father. He’s a selfish, cruel man who only cares about himself and the billions that line his pockets. I’m not sure what’s worse, not having a father at all, or having a father who hates my guts. Not only that, I’m constantly afraid that I will feel this lonely for the rest of my life, and that I’ll never experience what it means to truly belong to someone, without fear of being rejected. But mostly I just feel a desperate kind of longing for a woman who walked away from me over a month ago, a woman who gave me a false name and number, and who has become my muse and my complete and utter obsession.

“Talk to me, Sterling. Let me comfort you, like you’ve comforted me this past year since my divorce.”

“This city is incredible,” I begin, giving her a half-hearted smile.

“But…?”

“But I haven’t made any friends. I spend my days and nights alone. The only thing that has kept the loneliness at bay is my art, and even then…” I grit my jaw, hating how fucking pathetic I sound.

“Even then?” she gently prods.

“It’s not enough. I thought it would be, but it isn’t.”

“Oh, Sterling.” She takes my hand in hers, her warm touch, soothing.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the freedom of being able to paint without dad’s constant disapproval, but it doesn’t seem to matter where I go, I can’t hide from the fact that I’m stilldifferent, despite all the years dad spent trying to change me into his view of the perfect son.”

“Your uniqueness is agoodthing, Sterling,” she says fiercely.

“He doesn’t think so,” I argue.

“You are incredible just the way you are. Your art is utterly captivating, and your father is a fool for not realising that, for not seeing what I see, what other people will see if you gave them the chance.”

“I appreciate you saying that, but–”

“No buts. Not only are you a gifted artist, you are agoodman. You are thoughtful, kind, intelligent, tenacious, hilarious when you allow yourself to be,” she adds with a wink, that softens into another smile, “And you have so much to offer the world. Do not give up hope. Good things are coming, I promise you that.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’m a mother, we tend to know things about our children.”

“And what is it that you think you know?” I ask, humouring her.

“I know that you will attend your father’s wedding–”

“I’m not going. I fucking refuse,” I bite out, interrupting her.

“You will go, and I’ll tell you why. It won’t be because your father demanded that you attend, but because it’s time to face him as the man I’ve always known you could be: strong, independent,formidable. This is your opportunity to prove toyourselfthat you are worthy of the Blade family name, not because you are anything like him, but because you are so uniquely you.”

“You have a lot of faith in me,” I mutter.

“Of course I do, and that isn’t just because you’re my son, but because I’ve seen with my own eyes how you’ve traverseda world that can be unutterably cruel with spirit, and enduring strength.”

“I don’t feel particularly strong,” I admit, and as difficult as it is for me to voice that out loud, it’s the truth.

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