Page 53 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

Why can’t I get this blue right? The pile of pigment I’m currently studying is a mix between cyan and azure, and it’s notright. I slice my palette knife into the pile of white at the edge of my board, and then smear the white into the mix. Then, before blending, I tap my phone screen so my dad’s on speaker.

“Buttercup? I was out on my walk. Everything okay?” That’s one heck of a question.

“Yeah, sort of.”

Only I spent the night on the comfiest couch ever in my boss’ arms, and this guest room I thought was my private space isn’t so private, and I can’t mix this blue!

“Doesn’t sound it. Are you short on rent again? Is that landlord of yours giving you a hard time?”

“I—er, actually, moved out of that place. Like, a week ago. I’m back in Silver Springs.”

“You don’t say! Well, how about that? You always loved it there. I think the fresh air agreed with you. You were a happy kid. You staying with The Fizz?”

“Fizzy’s allergic to Bo. I’m—I have a room at another friend’s place.”

“Is that right? Fantastic, Buttercup. I’m happy you’re in your old stomping grounds. Never made it back, myself, after we hightailed it outta there.”

“Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about. Why did you hightail it out of town?”

“Oh—did I say that? Ha. Well, old age... I say the darndest things these days.”

“Dad, you’re not old. You can’t blame senior citizenship on that slip of the tongue. Can we talk about this?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to say. Your mother wanted to move. Is that what’s got you upset—our move to the west coast? You don’t sound like your chipper self. Is it being back there in town, that’s bringing it up?”

I smoosh the backside of my palette knife into the mixture of white and blue paints. As the colors smear together, I consider his words.

“Kind of,” I say, while I continue to blend. “But there’s more to it than that.”

And then, I spill everything. Mom’s visit to town seven years ago. My search of the boxed-up Historical Society displays. The photograph of Elsa and Theodore… and the envelope.

Even talking about how Mom wrote my name on the front of it makes tears spring to my eyes. I picture that heart, with the little lines fanning out from it like sunny rays.

She loved me, and I miss her.

I can tell that talking about her is hard for my dad, too. His voice sounds a little choked up as he says,

“Well, how about that… How about that? She never told me she delivered that envelope to Silver Springs. Your mother always was full of surprises.”

“She was,” I agree. “And this sure is a big one. But get this, Dad. Now the envelope is missing.”

“Missing?”

“Fizzy thinks someone stole it. And he thinks it’s the only copy. So, can we try again, with the story of our move to California? Because I feel like you’re not telling me everything, and it’s probably time for me to know the parts you're keeping quiet about.”

The blue under my knife is now much closer to the color I was after. I roll my brush into the mix and then dab the tip onto the canvas before me.

Painting has always come naturally to me. Like breathing or talking. And not only does it feel natural, but it also feels soothing. So, I streak the paintbrush in long, thick lines across the upper edge of the canvas as I wait for my dad’s response. I’ve already layered in swirling navy and indigo, and I like the way these streaks look against the dark base.

“I don’t know,” he says, with a heavy sigh. “I really don’t know… I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“There’s trouble happening here regardless,” I argue, thinking about my poor, violated sock drawer. “And it’d really help me out if you could fill in some missing details.”

His sigh sweeps through the room as if he’s here in person with me rather than across the phone lines, in California.

“Okay, Buttercup. Give me a minute to try to figure out where to start.” I flit my brush across the canvas, adding more inch-long segments of blue. The strokes are wilder and freer than usual for me, but the fast motion feels right. I try to turn off the part of my brain that wants to straighten them out, and just let my hand move.

I had a teacher once, back at RISD, who used to instruct us students to paint with our hearts. That’s what I’m trying to do now.

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