Page 8 of Reckless Single Daddy

“Where are you off to?” she asks, and I suck in my bottom lip. It isn’t as if I’m sneaking out, let alone should have to answer my mother at my age, but this question makes me feel small. Like I’m a kid again.

“Just a walk,” I answer. “I’m struggling to find inspiration for my next set of pieces, so...”

One of the things I’ve always stood up for was my art against my parents, so much so that I don’t typically talk to them about my shortcomings, either. Mike is a police officer with the Rose Valley Police Department, Mia is a fourth-grade school teacher who recently won Teacher of the Year, and I’m the struggling artist. Okay, I’m not struggling anymore, but I’m the one who risks eating ramen noodles every night just to sell a piece of art.

My parents never believed in taking risks like that. They are more practical, and if they had it their way, I’d have ended up doing something mundane in Rose Valley.

My mom hums, and I brace myself for the lecture.

“The Rose Valley Festival is this afternoon,” she says. “I hear there is a local art enthusiasts club.”

I looked at her with a mix of confusion and shock. Did she just encourage me to seek out some of the local art scene? Are they artists? She said “enthusiasts,” so maybe they’re just art fans? And since when did we get an art scene in this town? Rose Valley isn’t exactly the first place one would think up-and-coming artists hailed from, but I guess a lot changes when you’ve been away as long as I have.

“Oh… sure. Thanks, Mom,” I say hesitantly as we stand awkwardly in the foyer. I haven’t spoken to my mom much since—well, since things happened five years ago. After all that, I channeled all my energy into my art and didn’t look back. It was easier that way, but it’s what allowed me to create my collection because without it, I’d probably be… I guess I don’t know where I’d be today. I think that’s why being unable to figure out my next pieces is so frustrating. My first piece meant more to me than anything else. Not just because it was my first big break, but because it saved me.

“Listen, Sloane, I know things have been—” my mom starts.

I hold my hand up, shaking my head. “I don’t really want to get into that.”

She stops and stares at me, sighing deeply.

“I’m here for Mia, that’s it. Please, let’s not rehash something that doesn’t need rehashing,” I continue.

She shakes her head again, slower and much sadder this time. “I worry about you, that’s all,” she says softly.

I look down and lick my lips, feeling the weight of her words press on my shoulders. “I know, but everything is fine, really,” I tell her, and everything is when it comes tothat; it’s just everything else that has been overtaking my mind. Either way, I don’t want her to worry. I know she cares. After all, I’m her youngest kid, and from what I’ve heard, that usually means something to parents.

I leave before it gets any more awkward. If I have to be stopped to talk about anything else, I may combust, but my mother has the right idea. Maybe going to the Rose Valley Festival will spark something in me that I can use for my next collection. I’m not sure what, per se, but I feel like I’ll know it when I see it.

The Rose Valley Annual Festival is the biggest annual event in our small town. It’s the place where the community gathers. It holds different activities and events. Some people even set up booths to showcase various businesses, though when I sayour town is small, it issmall. We all know Jennie’s Diner on Main makes the best cherry cobbler in upstate New York, and Garrison’s Auto Body shop will have your car repaired in at least a day and a half—two days if he decides to close shop because the “fish were biting.” The point is that the booths to showcase goods and attract business are unnecessary. Anyone who is anyone in this town has lived in it for generations and knows the businesses as if they are their own.

But I’ll never say no to a sample of Jennie’s famous cobbler.

The crowd around me is dense as I make my way through the festival, even by local standards. This time of year is usually when the crowds pick up for tourist season, but based on the deal Cade made with the marina, something tells me that tourism has taken a nosedive throughout the town, not just the marina.

Nothing has changed. Everyone’s banners are the same, with children itching to get to the bounce house. And, of course, who could forget the long line for the cobbler?

“Come check out the Art Teen Enthusiasts!”

I turn my head at the voice and spot a girl, probably no more than seventeen, attempting to pass out a flyer. As each person passes, she bounces on her toes awkwardly, like she wants to crawl back into her shell.

Seriously? No one is bothering to take the flyer from her out of politeness?

I guess this person consists of the “enthusiasts” that Mom mentioned.

I’m not mad that I was deceived into thinking this club would be a club for adults; I’m just disappointed. What is an almost thirty-year-old going to do with a school art club? I sigh, closing my eyes, annoyed with my mom for even thinking this was remotely the same thing, but I was always told not to judge a book by its cover.

I reluctantly step towards the girl as she holds out a flyer to another passing couple, who pay her no mind. “Join the—” she cuts herself off as I approach her.

“What you got there?” I ask.

She looks up at me hopefully, like I’m the first decent person she’s met all day. “Oh, we’re the Rose Valley High’s Art Teen… wait?” She stops mid-pitch, and her eyes widen in recognition like she’s just seen a celebrity or something.

“You’re Sloane Bennett!” she nearly squeals. She starts to jump excitedly as I look around awkwardly. Her reaction is beginning to attract some attention.

“Okay, okay,” I tell her, holding my hands out to calm her down.

She lets out a deep breath to compose herself. “I’m sorry, it’s just that you’re a big deal.” I sure don’t feel like it, but perhaps things are looking up. “Can you sign this?” she asks as she moves the pile of flyers out of the way to show one of my prints on a binder.

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