Chapter Eight

When I was in middle school, I had an art teacher by the name of Mr. Fisher. He was dark-skinned, tall, and as my mother would say, "had a face full of character." He was one of those teachers you'd hope for. With some teachers, you could tell they took on more than they could handle and had given up on making an impact. But he wasn't like that. He loved his job, and it showed.

On our first day, he told us by being in his classroom, we would have to live by his rules. And he lived by three simple principles:

You are not the canvas, but the painter.

You are not the paint absorbed into the cloth, because you hold the paintbrush.

Do not allow another painter to paint on your canvas, because only you should.

He knew it was impossible to be the painting and the painter at the same time, and at some point, you'd either surrender or conquer one of them.

Of course, most of us thought it was a dramatic way of saying "don't cheat in my class," but over the course of a semester, he changed the way I looked at art. In fact, he was the very reason I got into animation. It would be years before I found the art form, but the fact remained. To make something out of nothing. To have control over the narrative I created. It felt almost superhuman to take a simple, insignificant thought and make it into something. Art was about making something out of nothing. Watching an idea become more than you imagined.

If you look up the definition of become, it's defined in three words:

Begin to be.

It's funny because it sounds like a command. As if to say something isn't being right now in this moment. You have to get up and start to exist. But some of us don't look at life in that way. We see ourselves as painters, creating moments, memories, atmospheres, even confrontations. We don't think about creating ourselves, because we already exist. And to become someone would imply we weren't someone before.

But that's the thing about fresh starts, you can't erase your past, the image someone else painted for you. You can, however, take the paintbrush from them, and paint over it. And to capture the beauty of the end result takes planning and intention. Because while it's hard to create something out of nothing, it holds little to the courage you must have to create something, despite of what's already there.

I was approaching the moment where Mr. Fisher's words made complete sense. And as much as I wanted to, life wouldn't allow me to ignore them. I had a canvas full of colors painted with me in mind, but I wasn't holding the brush. I never had been. Family comes first. A principle my father lived by, and one I grew up always believing. But now, I came first. Not by choice, or by some call to action, but because my father decided for me.

To go from living for my family to surviving for myself, was lonely. But Wren never left my side.

His mustang bolted down the empty road with open fields on either side. It was The Golden Hour. The reddened sun shined through the high grass and evergreens. Though I loved Mrs. Davidson, I wasn't in a rush to get to her place. It smelled like mothballs, cornstarch, and loneliness. The walls creaked, dust collected in the pages of all her books, and I would be forced to watch her stories until she finally gave up the television for sleep.

What I needed was a distraction.

The image of my father's eyes was embedded into my mind like a permanent mark of demarcation. His last words pummeled my mind to its barest functions. I wanted to cry. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to not exist. My life was pried from my bare hands and now I had nothing.

"We're here." Wren peeked from the rim of his shades, pulling to the side of the road. I saw a carpet of yellow in its reflection and I canned my neck out the window.

Sunflowers. A field of them, and they stretched for miles. I saw nothing but their bright yellow petals as they faced the sun. Standing tall and upright, they blended into one.

"Wow," I breathed.

He popped the locks, and we got out. The sun sizzled the back of my neck and Wren stepped ahead. I'd never seen anything like it. It was like the sun's home. A place where its rays matched so perfectly, I was convinced it was its favorite place on earth.

Turning around, Wren stretched out his hand. "Come on."

"Wait. What about bees?"

Humor spun in his eyes as he took my hand. "I'll protect you."

And into the maze, we went. The sunflowers almost touched my height, stretching up to my chin. I followed his lead. He weaved through their disarray, interrupting their stances. It wasn't long before his hand parted from mine, and I lost him completely. It was vast but quiet. As if he had teleported to a dimension and left me here.

"Wren!" I called out, but he didn't answer.

I was lost. Fear trickled in for a moment, but then I took a breath, stood, and learned to just exist. I heard the sound of the wind, smelled soil and pollen, and listened out for singing birds.

It had never been this quiet, not in my mind, and definitely not in my life. I closed my eyes, feeling the way my chest rose and fell at the meeting of my breath. I scrunched my toes, dug my nails into the palm of my hand, removed my shoes to feel the grass in between my toes.

I didn't feel lonely or guilty for the things I'd said. I knew I wouldn't always, but right now, in this sea of flowers, I was okay.

The view was too good to go unseen. When I saw the field of sunflowers again, a bee eclipsed the sight and landed on my nose. Moment ruined. A shriek erupted from my mouth and a group of birds took flight. As I flailed until I felt safe, Wren sprinted to my aid.

"What's wrong?" he shouted.

"Bee!" I hooked my fingers around his arm and launched forward. Somehow, I found my way out of the field and back to the open road.

When the coast was clear, I tethered our bond. Wren tumbled to the ground, laughing. Crap. I forgot my shoes. "I'm not going back in there."

With a charming smile, he pulled my worn converse from behind him and placed them on my feet. "Okay, so maybe this wasn't the brightest idea," he admitted.

Before I could agree, he ventured to his trunk. My spirits warmed when he pulled out a blanket, wireless speakers, and a bag of sour gummy worms.

"You came prepared," I said.

We parachuted the blanket into the air and stationed it to the grass. As soft music came from the speakers, I settled into place. He slithered to my side, draped his arm over my shoulders, and we fell onto our backs. The sky never looked so beautiful.

"Why Songbird?" I asked.

He laughed, thinking it over. "I don't know, really. After I heard you sing, I realized I stopped enjoying music. I feel like all I ever do is compare my work to others. Sometimes I forget that music is meant to be appreciated. I feel like now that I make it, I don't know how to listen to music anymore."

It was nice to know I helped him in some way. I guess that's why he's had a hard time making new music. I know what it's like to feel like your work isn't good enough, but comparisons never helped anyone.

"Okay." I clapped and sat up. "Music speed round. Favorite artist?"

"5 Seonds of Summer."

I figured. "Jhené Aiko."

It was his turn. "Guilty pleasure?"

"Glee covers."

"Oh. My. God."

"Hey!" I jabbed my finger at him. "You haven't lived until you've heard Jacob Artist sing Never Say Never."

Raising his hands, he deflected. "Julie and the Phantoms."

"My sister loved that show."

"I loved that show. The first time I heard Unsaid Emily I cried for two hours."

I laughed. Maybe I should watch it. "Music's best-kept secret?"

"Superfruit."

"DPR."

I had no more questions, but neither did he. The distraction was wearing off, and soon, I'd be right where I started. I could already hear my father's words in the back of my head. I couldn't believe he kicked me out. That's how he handled things. I've kept my mouth shut for months and the moment I said something he didn't like, he told me to leave. He needed me, no matter how much he pretended he didn't.

"Can we talk about it now?" Wren asked.

"What's there to say? I got into a fight with my father and he kicked me out."

"But you also said... that you accused him of killing your mom. Do you really believe that?"

"I don't know." I wrestled for the right answer, but I didn't have one. "When he decided to start his own restaurant, she was supportive. She knew he wasn't happy, so she agreed. Picked up more hours at work to help with the money, but as it got closer to the restaurant opening, he realized he couldn't do it all on his own. So she quit her job, which she loved. It's just, after a while, she wasn't herself. She'd forget things, lose her balance. She was always sweet and understanding. This one time, I forgot to wake her up for an appointment and she chewed me out. It was like looking at your mother and seeing someone completely different."

"Jesus." He interlaced our fingers.

"When I realized something was wrong, I took her to the hospital. I thought she was just stressed. I wanted to sit her in front of a professional and so she'd see she was overworking herself."

"And what? She didn't listen."

"The doctor didn't listen, so neither did my mother." I gripped his hands so tight his knuckles dug into my skin. "The doctor said she seemed fine. There was nothing wrong with my mother. She wouldn't even do a physical exam on her. I mean she checked a few things, but not nearly enough. That's why I hate when people talk about how strong black women are because when we're in pain, people don't believe us. Not the doctor and not my father."

I took a moment. The wound was open. I needed to get it out before it closed again. "My mother made me promise not to take her back. She said she didn't like the way the doctor looked at her. I tried to find someone else, but I was too late. She had a seizure. The doctors said she had a brain tumor. Here, I thought she was just stressed out, and she had a brain tumor. Thankfully, they were able to remove it, but she just won't wake up."

"Please tell me you didn't go to the same doctor."

"No. Doctor Simmons's really great."

As long as I lived, I would never forget the doctor who ignored us. Doctor Emilia De Luca. I remembered her luminous gray curls, hazel eyes, the way she chewed on her lip when she wasn't listening. I remembered the smell of her perfume, even the color of her nail polish. Had I'd gone to someone else, I could've saved my mother. But our problems weren't big enough for her. No matter how much time passed, I would never, ever stop blaming her. She was the professional. She was supposed to help us. If only she cared.

Thankfully, she retired a week later.

"I don't know. Sometimes, I feel like I'm the reason my mother's like this. Maybe if had convinced her better—"

"No, Nora, you can't blame yourself for this." He gripped my shoulders and forced me to look at him. "And I know you're going to hate me for this, but you can't blame your dad for it either."

"I feel like I need to blame him for something, otherwise he'll feel like he wasn't wrong."

Handing me his sleeve to use as a tissue, he nodded. "Neglecting his family for his dreams, putting all his responsibilities on his wife and then transferring it to you when she no longer could do it, I get it. You can be mad at him, but don't blame him for what happened. It's killing him, even if you never see it."

I lost it. I didn't think it was possible to cry so much. It was all the tears I swallowed, and the pain I ignored, long before my mother rested her head. And as I wept, he held me in his arms. When the sun finally took its leave, my tears were all cleaned out.

"I really didn't bring you here to make you cry," he joked.

"I'm not usually like this. I'm sorry."

"For crying?" He rubbed my back. "You don't do it often?"

I didn't want to cry anymore. That's enough for today. "Let's talk about something else."

"Okay then, give me a dream."

"Ugh." I fell onto my back, but he gripped my forearm and pulled me right back up.

"Seriously, come on. You're not getting out of this," he said.

Throwing my hands in the air, I said the first proper dream I ever had. "Tangled."

"Li-like the movie?"

"The lantern scene. I've always wanted to see that in real life."

He fell silent for a moment, his mind racing. "It's gonna take me some time, but I'll do it. Give me another."

"There's no way you can make that happen," I chuckled, happy the mood lifted.

"You're probably right. Is that your plan, Songbird? Give me impossible dreams to fulfill?"

I played with his soft fingers, not quite ready to leave the conversion astray. "There's another dream you can fulfill."

Nestling into his seat, he leaned forward. "What?"

"I want—" What am I doing? This is so cheesy. I really think I'm in a love story, right now. "Uh, I want pizza."

"That's not what you were going to say," he laughed. "You getting shy on me, Songbird?"

I covered my face with my hands. He leaned in until I felt his forehead touch mine. There's that weapon of charm thing he got going on. I'm getting woozy. "Never mind," I said.

"No, never mind." He forced my hands away and I screwed my eyes shut. "You can say it with your eyes closed. On the count of three. One, two—"

"Can I kiss you?"

He was so quiet I had to look. Peeking out one eye, I tried to gauge his reaction. It was no use. I could barely see with both eyes open. He didn't seem upset. "I wasn't expecting that. I thought you were going to say you wanted me to dress up as Flynn Rider. I thought we were still on the Tangled thing."

"Great. You don't have to worry about taking me to Mrs. Davidson. You can just roll over me with your car." I crumbled into my hands and he cackled. He was laughing? I could cry.

He removed my hands. "Kissing you sounds so much more fun, though."

He pressed his hands into the blanket and pushed himself up. Our noses touched and his breathing slowed to match my own. He familiarized himself, taking in my flushed features. Stealing my breath, he brushed his lips against mine. But he subverted my expectations when he kissed my cheek. "You're so beautiful," he whispered.

I almost squealed. His hand slid to the nape of my neck. A chill struck me, but my shallow breath and racing heart never felt so connected. He looked at me through his long lashes and smiled. My nerves seemed to release a bit when I smiled back. And then, without haste, he pressed his lips onto mine.

It was my first memory outside of my family's home. And it was definitely worth posting.

🌻 Full Playlist?

Just type in "Smelling Roses" in Spotify.

Author Note: This is the song that inspired this novel. I listened to it nonstop and kept envisioning this couple running around in a sunflower field, and I just had to write their story.