Page 2 of Jesse's Girl
“Fine,” she says, waving me off. “I’m off Friday.” She points a finger at me, as if challenging me to argue. “You working? Or are you free?”
I nod. “Friday’s good.”
Katie’s gaze lands on my easel and her face falls slightly, no doubt guessing what’s fueled my salty mood yet again. She walks around me and surveys the canvas. “So? What’d they do this time? Same old bullshit?”
“Of course it’s the same old bullshit,” I grouse, chucking the paintbrush onto a battered tray. “Mom emailed me some shit about college applications today. And I’ve got dinner with them tonight. I already know they’re gonna be on my ass about it. It’s always like”—I affect my best impression of my nagging mother—“when are you going to quit messing around and go to college? Or why don’t you get a proper job in an office? Come work for Sitka like Marcus.”
I frown. The last thing I want is to spend my days in a cubicle at my parents’ property development firm.
“You already have a proper job,” Katie reassures me, bumping her hip against mine. “And a volunteer gig on top of that. Don’t let them get to you. They’re just old-fashioned.”
“Wanna come to dinner tonight and explain it to them? Because they’re sure as shit not listening to me.” I reach into my basket of paints and select pure black. It’s become a real pattern recently—knowing my parents will give me shit every Sunday means I spend the entire day in a state of anticipatory dread, painting my feelings. Maybe I should have been an art therapist instead of a bartender-slash-recreation-coordinator.
Katie glances around my bedroom, studying the artwork leaning up against the walls. “I’m liking the dark and broody vibes, though. Maybe your parents are doing you a favor, y’know, fueling the whole tortured artist thing.”
I hum a soft sound of acknowledgment. “Maybe I should lean into it—get some face tattoos, a bunch of piercings. Really excessive eyeliner. They’d love that.” I survey my cluttered room as I turn the tube of paint over in my hands, contemplating the way my emotions have flooded out of me and onto these canvases.
“Looks like you’ve gotten a lot done,” she says, following my gaze.
“I guess.” I pause, then blow out a breath. “Don’t know why I bother, though. I’m barely making any sales. All I do every day is shout into the void on social media about my paintings. And my parents…” I trail off, shaking my head.
Katie’s brows lift. “They’ve really gotten to you this time, haven’t they?”
“I dunno.” I toss the tube back into the basket, pulling the headphones from my neck and dropping them onto my bedside table. “Yeah, maybe.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder and faces me. “Ada Russo, listen to me: you are an incredible artist, and I know you’re gonna blow up one of these days. Just look at all this!” She gestures at the finished pieces around us.
I sigh, sinking heavily onto my bed. “They’re never gonna see this as legit, though. They don’t understand. They just keep harping on about college and comparing me to fucking Marcus. Because he’s all successful and shit with his cushy office job.”
That he didn’t even earn. Goddamn nepo baby golden child.
My parents, both raised by Italian immigrants, have always understood success as following the classic college-to-traditional-career pipeline. A box I’ve never fit into. Nothing screams traditional career less than a tattooed artist with dyslexia and blue hair.
“Remind me again why you keep subjecting yourself to their crap?” Katie asks.
I give her a long look. “You know how my parents are. Missing Sunday dinners would be sacrilege.” I pick at a bit of dried paint on my knuckle. “Plus, you’ve had my mom’s cooking, right?”
“Yeah, but you don’t need to tolerate their criticism just to get a free meal.” She sits beside me and mutters, “I don’t care how good your mom’s lasagna is.”
I throw her a sidelong glance.
“Don’t stink eye me!”
“It’s really fucking good lasagna.” Home-cooked Italian food isn’t something you turn down.
“I know.” She rubs my back and tries to stifle a yawn. “But this is a them problem, not a you problem. Don’t get caught up in comparing yourself to your brother.”
My phone chimes in the back pocket of my jean shorts.
“What the fuck?” I mumble as I peer at the screen. “Did we summon him or something?”
Marcus
Had to run to Seattle to pick up Jesse
Quickly, two more texts come in.
Marcus