Page 22 of Off-Limits Daddy
Did I even know what that felt like?
I sat there while mom went back to folding the laundry. My fingers twisted at the loose threads of my shirt sleeve, wondering when I’d stopped feeling like myself. Maybe sometime between sophomore year and the last fight I had with Ben. Maybe sometime after realizing the art world wasn’t exactly holding a spot for me at the table, no matter how hard I worked. Maybe I’d never felt like myself.
“I’ll go out... clear my head a little,” I said finally, just to break the weight of my own thoughts.
Mom gave me a look that saiddon’t be stupid, but alsoyou’re grown—I’m not stopping you.
I didn’t know where I was going yet, but I knew one thing: doing nothing was killing me faster than any bad decision ever could.
And hell if I wasn’t tired of drowning in my own head.
It didn’t take me long to find myself wandering to the edge of town, following roads I could’ve walked blindfolded.
The old feed mill sat empty now, the building sagging into itself like a man too tired to stand straight. Out behind it, tucked between a line of rusted-out fencing and the dry creek bed, was the wall.
Half brick, half concrete, faded paint curling at the edges like paper left out in the rain. I used to sneak out here when I was ateenager with a backpack full of cheap spray paint, hiding from the world and pretending I was some kind of rebellious prodigy.
Now, I just carried a sketchpad and a few tubes of acrylic stuffed in my bag, along with a chipped jar of water I borrowed from the kitchen.
I crouched by the base of the wall and let the sketchpad fall open on my thigh. Didn’t think, didn’t plan. Just let my hand move.
Shapes first. Angles. Shadows bleeding into curves.
It always started like this—half-formed ideas crawling out of me like they’d been waiting for their turn. Lately, everything I drew came out abstract, like my mind didn’t trust itself to make anything solid yet.
I used to love painting people. Not portraits, not the careful sit-there-and-smile kind of thing, but moments. The curve of a neck under light, the sharp cut of a jawline caught in shadow. Bodies, moving or still, messy and alive. Back in school, my senior project had been a whole series of paintings capturing hands—hands working, gripping, soft, calloused, reaching.
I’d never told anyone, but a lot of them wereDaddy’shands. Memory sketches I could never quite erase, even years later.
I worked fast now, smearing color across the page, loose strokes coming together. Two shapes, side by side but not touching. One curved, reaching, pulling upward. The other tall, rigid, resisting the pull.
God, I was pathetic.
I set the brush down and pressed the heel of my hand hard to my eyes, like I could wipe the whole thing out of me if I pushed hard enough.
I didn’t come here to draw him.I came here to remember who I was before everything got complicated.
And maybe that was the problem. Maybe I didn’t know who that was anymore.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
I jolted, head snapping up so fast I nearly knocked the water jar over.
Cael stood at the edge of the fence, hands in the pockets of his hoodie like he’d been waiting a while before speaking up.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “You trying to kill me?”
“Relax.” He grinned. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I knew you’d be here when your mom said you went out for a walk. Figured you might wanna hear about what’s going on.”
I gave him a look. “If this is about who’s screwing who at McGrady’s, pass.”
“Nah.” Cael pushed off the fence and came closer, eyeing the sketchpad but not saying anything about it, like a good friend should. “Fourth of July’s coming up, and you know the town goes all out. Banners, storefront displays, the whole thing. Mrs. Evans on the planning committee mentioned wanting some local art, something that’ll get people talking.”
I stared at him. “What, like face painting?”
He snorted. “No. Big stuff. Window art, banners, maybe a mural on the side of the VFW hall—you know, the veterans’ place—if they can get it cleared.”
A mural.
