Page 5 of If My Wishes Came True
“You too,” he says with an easy grin. “I’m Charlie, by the way. Your new neighbor.”
“Jenna,” I tell him as I finally manage to open my door.
“Nice to meet you, Jenna,” he says as the elevator arrives again to whisk him away.
There’s something about the way he says my name that makes my heart skip a beat. I watch him smile one last time before he disappears.
I’ll have to avoid him like the plague. The last thing I need is to get involved with my neighbor. There’s no way to keep things casual when you live that close to someone.
I’ve been there before—I know.
As I get ready for bed, I put on another rom-com for background noise. I opt for a classic—She’s All That. But it’s like pouring salt on a wound. Not only does Laney Boggs get her happy ending, she’s also an artist. My eyes fill with tears as I watch her paint.
I gave up on love years ago, because I couldn’t take any more heartbreak. But why did I give up on art?
As a girl, all I ever wanted to do was paint. My mom always encouraged me. When I was in preschool, she set up a little easel in the corner of our kitchen, and while she’d cook dinner in the evenings, I’d experiment with different brushes and colors.
But when I was diagnosed with dyslexia, my dad put my easel in the attic, along with all my other art supplies. I cried for weeks, even though I knew he’d never budge. He had no appreciation for the visual arts at all. And he didn’t care that my mom thought I had a gift. She wasn’t an artist herself, so why should he listen to her? In his eyes, being a painter wasn’t good enough. He wanted me to be anintellectual, like him. He insisted I work on assignmentsfrom my reading tutor every night, instead of painting. My mother didn’t feel like it was her place to intervene. Because she was a stay-at-home mom, and my dad was the academic, she left the important decisions up to him.
Now my tears are dried up, and my anger is raging. But the person I’m most livid with isme. Yes, my dad made me feel like my dreams were worthless, so I never painted for pleasure again—only when it was required for my art classes in school, and even then, I felt like I was committing some cardinal sin. But I’m a grown woman now. What’s stopping me? I may not be able to control my love life, or lack thereof. But I cancontrol whether or not I paint.
Maybe I don’t get the happy ending that comes with thunderbolts and music swelling. But maybe I can give seven-year-old Jenna the happy ending she always wanted—an easel that no one can take away.
I grab my laptop and look up the art studio I always pass on my way to the grocery store. I don’t even give it a second thought when I click the button to register for class. When I’m done, a small weight lifts from my chest.
I go to bed expecting to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I’m exhausted from that godawful date. Relieved that I’m finally going to make my way back to painting.
But I don’t drift off. Ican’t.
Instead, I’m wide awake, thinking about my new neighbor, Charlie…and the way my heart skipped a beat when he said my name.
Idon’t know what’s come over me.
I’ve barely slept all week. I keep tossing, and turning, and dreaming about…
Charlie.
It’s absurd. We barely spoke. The whole interaction probably lasted two minutes, if that.
But I can’t get him out of my head. His flushed cheeks. His warm smile. His eyes, and the curious way he looked at me.
And his body, when we collided, was so solid and strong. I walked right into his chest, which felt like the perfect place to rest my head. And his arms looked like they would feel so good around my waist…
What the heck is the matter with me? Ithasbeen a while since I’ve slept with someone. That must be what this is about.
Luckily, I haven’t seen my new neighbor since I ran into him the other night. And itislucky, considering how many times I’ve lingered by the elevator over the past few days.
But there’s no time to worry about Charlie now anyway, because I’m taking my very first painting class today. I’m so excited that I arrive at the studio about fifteen minutes early. The classroom door is open, and when I peek inside, I see two women mixing paint on a palette.
“Come on in!” the younger of the two says with a giant smile as she waves me over. She looks to be about my age. “We don’t bite.”
I smile and step into the studio. Everything everywhere is covered in paint splotches. Turquoise. Violet. Fuchsia. Saffron. All the colors of the rainbow, and then some. My sister, Christy, would be horrified. She’s a neat-freak, like our dad. But I don’t see splatter as mess. I see it as freedom.
This is a place where I can be myself.
I take a deep breath, and the unmistakable aroma of oil paints, turpentine, tin cans, and charcoal pencils envelops me like a hug from an old friend. I haven’t smelled anything like this since high school art class. My teacher, Mrs. Swanson, told me I was the most talented student she’d ever had. She begged me to consider entering a competition, but I lied and said I wasn’t interested. It would have required extra work outside of school, and my dad never would have allowed it.
But he doesn’t get to decide for me anymore, I think with a flutter of excitement as I reach the women at the front of the classroom. “Hi, I’m Jenna,” I say, beaming.
