Back Where We Belong (A Second Chances New Adult Romance) by Alana Hart, Caia Fox Page A

think I might have a go. I buy
paper, canvas, paint and brushes. Working with all the pictures inspires me. I
want to paint and draw.
    Mom doesn't like my renewed
interest. “Is that what dropping out is all about? I suppose you think I'll let
you go to art school because you didn’t like college. Think again.”
    I don't let her put me off this
time. I like to take my pad and pencil to work, and when it’s quiet at
lunchtime, I draw.
    Michelle is very encouraging when
she sees my early efforts. “Why don't you take a class?” she says.
    So I draw and paint and work in
the art gallery, despite Mom and her never-ending negativity. And I'm okay. At
least I'm okay when I'm awake and not reliving what happened to me at college.
I know I need to see a therapist about that, but it's awkward. How would I
explain it to Mom? And I don't have much money to spare. I won't give up my art
classes. I can't. I love them. Or buying paint and canvasses.
    I'm saving for the deposit for my
own place. I'm starting to think I'd like to live on my own eventually,
somewhere large enough where I can have a studio. I know there'll be a time
when I don't need the presence of anyone else to feel safe. Ironic that living
with my crazy mother makes me feel safer than living on my own. I guess all I
really want these days is to feel safe again. And not to have nightmares.
      

CHAPTER 28
MADISON
     
    *** FOUR
YEARS LATER ***
     
     
    Michelle is a great boss. I'm so
pleased I found the job at the art gallery. I can hardly believe I've been
there for over four years. I never want to work anywhere else.
    My mother mocks my lack of
ambition. “If you'd stuck it out at college you'd have had a great career by
now.” But my job makes me happy so I don't care what she says.
    I hardly ever have nightmares
now. It's true, time does heal. Or at least it puts a mighty great bandage over
everything that you don't want to remember.
    I no longer think every guy is
out to rape me. But I don't know how I'd be on a date or alone in a room with a
guy. I prefer them in broad daylight and when they are not coming on to me.
    Sometimes the guys at the art
school ask me out, but I always refuse. How can I even think about dating? The
thought of some guy kissing me, touching me, and pinning me down and not
letting me go makes me shudder. No matter how nice some of the guys are on the
surface, and no matter how much they chat at coffee and seem like okay guys,
who knows what they are like under that veneer? I thought Brad was nice too
until he wasn't.
    No. It's safer just to work and
paint and draw and keep away from relationships. Mom has given up going on
about my lack of love life. I think she's given up on me altogether. She's says
I'm a hopeless daughter. She never fails to criticize me about anything and
everything.
    Every six months or so, I take
one of my days off to go and see Dad. He doesn't bother to take time off for
me. There's a regular pattern to these meetings. He takes me for lunch. I tell
him about the art gallery or what Mom has done or said. He gives me money for
“a treat.” It pays for my fare and there's a bit left over to add to my “escape
from Mom” savings. And he shows me pictures of his new family.
    His daughter is nearly five years
old now and he has a baby son too. He seems proud of them. They are nice
looking children. I hate them, though it's not their fault that my father dotes
on them and not on me. Perhaps I should see a therapist about that too. I'm a
mess. I know that. But I get along and I'm content in my own way.
    It's time for me to meet up with
Dad again soon. I think about saying to him that I’m too busy at the gallery
this time, but I can't quite bring myself to cut off every tie. I keep hoping
one day, though I know it's ridiculous and stupid of me, that he'll look at me
and say, “I'm proud of you, you know, Madison. I don't ever say it but I am.
You're strong. You've put up with your mother all these years. You're my