Page 24 of Off-Limits Daddy
“You didn’t think you could sneak back into town without me finding out, did you?” she continued.
My mouth tugged sideways. “Guess I underestimated you.”
“Well, Cael told me you were back and that you can still make magic with a paintbrush.”
A soft chuckle escaped before I could stop it. “Yeah… he talks too much.”
“He talks just enough.” She didn’t miss a beat.
Cael wasn’t wrong. This was exactly the kind of nudge he’d give—subtle as a sledgehammer but always with the best intentions. He wasn’t trying to shove me into something I didn’t want. He just hated watching me stall out.
“Now,” Mrs. Evans went on, brisk again. “We need banners. Big, bold, and festive. You’ve seen Main Street—it needs a bit of flair. Nothing store-bought. We want local. We want you.”
Her words shouldn’t have made my chest go all tight like that. But they did.
I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Sure. I can do the banners.”
“Good.” She didn’t even pause to let me second-guess it. “Come by the town office this afternoon—we’ll talk some more. I’ve got measurements and a few notes for you.”
“Okay.” I tapped my thumb against the mug’s handle, trying to ignore the way my stomach had suddenly gotten involved in the conversation.
There was a shuffle of paper on the other end, like she was already on to her next list.
“And if you’ve got time,” she added, casual as you please, but I could already feel the trapdoor opening beneath me, “we’re still hoping someone with your skill might take on the mural at the VFW. We’re just waiting on final approval from the council, but I figured I’d mention it now—get you thinking.”
That word again.
Mural.
It wasn’t even a massive wall—nothing like the one from sophomore year. That one was a city project, pulled together by one of my professors. No deadlines, no grades—just a handful of volunteers and a vision. It was supposed to be about community and expression and all that good stuff.
I’d said yes—tentatively. Sketched a few concepts. Showed up to the first couple planning meetings. Tried to act like I wasn’t intimidated. But the more serious it got, the more I froze up. Everyone else seemed to move with purpose, confident in their ideas, while I kept hesitating—reworking, overthinking, spiraling. By the end of the first week, I’d stopped showing up.
They finished the mural without me.
No one was mad. My professor even pulled me aside and said she got it—“Art isn’t always linear,” or something like that. But I still remembered walking past the wall later that summer, staring at the finished product and wondering if anyone could tell I’d ever been part of it at all. If there was even a trace of me left beneath all that color.
Now here was Mrs. Evans, dangling another wall in front of me. Smaller this time. Simpler, maybe. But still public. Still permanent. Still a test I wasn’t sure I’d pass.
I cleared my throat. “Let me get through the banners first,” I said, voice even, “then I’ll see where I’m at.”
She made a sound—something between a hum and a hmm—that said she heard me loud and clear. "We want it to be a veterans’ tribute, Ari. Patriotic but tasteful. You’d have full creative control, of course. We just want something that reminds folks what we’re celebrating, and we’d love to see your work out there again."
My pulse climbed higher, all tight in my throat.
“I appreciate that, really,” I said carefully. “I just want to give the banners my full attention first. Don’t want to overpromise and underdeliver, you know?”
Another beat of silence, just long enough for me to wonder if I’d disappointed her.
“All right then,” she said, letting it go, just like that. “We’ll start with the banners. And Ari?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
The line clicked before I could respond.
NINE
