Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
CALLIE
It’s been nearly a week since I started working at The Bar, and falling back into the rhythm of life in Big Ridge has been disturbingly easy.
Almost like I never left. My fifth shift was last night, and as soon as I got home, I collapsed in the bed and fell asleep.
I must have slept like a rock. There are pillow wrinkles on my cheek.
Yawning, I roll onto my side and check my phone, rubbing at my face to smooth the wrinkles. It’s almost ten.
If I lived alone, I’d probably stay in bed all day, but my parents might hover outside my door if I stay here for too long.
With a groan, I stretch. First a run, then coffee.
Running is the only thing keeping me sane right now, and the two miles fly by, probably because I’m desperate for caffeine.
Once I get home, I practically sprint up the steps, rushing into the kitchen with heaving breaths.
I barely woke up and I’m ready for a nap. Maybe a run was a bad idea today. But at least it’s Monday. These next two days I have off will be a much-needed reprieve. Bartending is exhausting work, but my big stack of tips makes it easier to endure.
“Morning, honey.” Mom is at the kitchen counter slicing fresh peaches. The sweet scent mingles with coffee. “Did you have a good run?”
Trying to steady my pants, I grunt and pour myself a cup of cream with a splash of coffee. Kidding. It’s half and half at least. Who in their right mind drinks black coffee? Devil worshippers, that’s who.
Mom chuckles. “Are you okay?” She scoops the peaches into a container and sticks them in the fridge to save for a cobbler or pie.
“Barely,” I croak and sit at the table.
“Maura’s working you to the bone, huh?”
“The lead bartender’s been out,” I inform her. “What are your plans for the day?”
“I’m heading over to help the summer festival committee.”
The summer festival is like Woodstock on steroids.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but Big Ridge Summer Fest is going on fifty years and it’s one of the biggest tourist draws.
Local bands, bigger bands from Nashville, a semi-famous headliner.
Carnival games and rides. Food and art vendors.
A few hundred thousand people. It’s a big deal.
And I hate it.
“What are you volunteering for?”
“The drink station.” Of course she is. Mom loves getting tourists drunk. “And Patty thinks she’s going to have a shift at the kissing booth, but Todd is set on ruining her plans.”
“Those two need to fuck already.”
Mom gently grabs my chin. “Don’t say fuck.” She kisses my cheek. “See you later.”
After Mom leaves, I grab my freshly refilled coffee mug and take the world’s fastest shower.
With no plans for the day, I wander down to the basement where my old studio waits.
The familiar scent of dried paint hits me as I flip on the lights.
There are easels tucked against the wall, the ones I brought home and the ones that I painted years ago right next to them.
Paint-splattered drop cloths covering the floor, shelves lined with supplies that probably need to be replaced.
Some of the paint is still in good enough shape though.
I’m not too worried about the quality since I’m not working on a serious piece.
Setting up a blank canvas, I settle onto the stool and take a deep breath.
This is what I need. Me and the canvas. No Theo hovering over my shoulder, no critics to please, no pressure to be groundbreaking.
Just me.
I stare at the pristine white surface, coffee cooling between my hands. Each heartbeat that passes without inspiration is like a nail in the coffin of my creativity. Nothing comes. My mind is as blank as the canvas before me.
Disappointment trickles down my spine. My gaze drifts to the stacks of old paintings leaning against the wall. I set my mug down and pull a few out, blowing off the dust. Most are landscapes. The mountains I’d grown up with captured in vibrant colors and bold strokes.
A stack of paintings bound together with twine make my breath catch. I’d forgotten about these. Delicately as I can, I untie them and spread them across the floor.
The first shows three roughly painted boys jumping from a cliff into the water below, their bodies suspended in mid-air, backs turned toward the viewer.
The second depicts a beat-up Camaro under a star-filled sky.
The four of us resting against the side of the car and gazing up.
The third is different, though. Four hands.
In order, Knox, me, Jax and Brax. Our fingers are linked and covered in speckles of spray paint from when we’d tagged the water tower.
The paintings are far from perfect, but as I stare at them, memories flood back.
My throat aches. These were meant to be presents, but I never got around to giving them to the guys because I left before Christmas.
I pick up the third painting, tracing my finger over the dried paint. We were such stupid kids.
Chest tight, I exhale and set the painting aside.
Maybe I’m over-thinking. I used to pick up a brush and let the art flow out of me.
I turn back to my blank canvas and grab a brush.
I dip it in blue paint, bring it to the canvas, bristles hovering over the white surface, and.
. . nothing. My muse is nowhere to be found.
Like she’s been snuffed out. The inspiration that once flowed so freely is gone. All that’s left is numbness.
“No, Callie, that’s not good enough,” Theo’s voice echoes in my head. I can almost feel him behind me, hovering, criticizing. Controlling. “Do it again.”
I drop the brush like it burns, splattering blue across the drop cloth.
It’s funny how I never noticed how fucked up Theo’s criticisms were until now.
From the very moment he met me, he was controlling.
Every stroke, every color choice. Taking ownership of my talent while slowly convincing me I had none.
Destroying my confidence one little chip at a time.
Telling me what to wear to fit in. How to act.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, grabbing my coffee and downing the lukewarm liquid in one gulp. My phone rings, and I almost ignore that too until I see Aspen’s name flash on the screen.
“Hey, Aspen,” I answer, trying to sound upbeat.
“Callie! I heard you’re back!” Her warm voice fills the line. “I need girl time. Want to meet for a late breakfast in twenty?”
I glance at the blank canvas then at the paintings I made for the guys. The studio is full of ghosts. “Yeah, okay. I could use the distraction.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Big Ridge Diner was designed to be a step back in time.
Old blue and white vinyl booths and a jukebox in the corner.
It’s not an aesthetic choice though. Big Ridge Diner has looked like this since it opened in the sixties.
I’m so used to nearly every experience in NYC being new, that I’m still a little thrown by how much everything has stayed the same.
Aspen waves from a corner booth, her dirty blonde hair thrown up into a cute messy bun, a style I’ve never been able to master. She stands up and throws her arms around me. “Look at you! Still gorgeous as ever.”
“Please, you’re the gorgeous one.” I slide into the booth across from her.
“We’re both beautiful. That’s why we’re friends.” Aspen’s smile is a mile wide. “How does it feel to be back in the Ridge? I bet you missed these tourists, huh?”
“Like a hole in the head,” I deadpan, but there’s no real bite to it. I did miss home. There’s something comforting about these mountains. “I keep expecting everything to be different. Is that weird?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Totally. I’m pretty sure change and Big Ridge are antonyms,” Aspen says.
The waitress brings us coffee without asking, and Aspen orders an omelet. I go for French Toast because I need bread and sugar. Those are essential items on the food pyramid, right?
“So,” Aspen leans forward, chin propped on her hands, “spill it, girlfriend. Why did you really come back? Last I heard, you were making it big in New York with your art.”
Great, my mom’s been telling stories. I wish I had some magical adventure to share. The question hits harder than I expect. I focus on stirring cream into my coffee, watching the black swirl to a creamy caramel. “I needed a change. City life gets old, you know?”
“Bullshit.” Aspen searches my face. “But you can keep your secrets.”
When I don’t rise to the bait, her expression softens. “Are you really okay, Cal? You’ve got that same look you had senior year after the video.”
“I’m fine.” The lie comes easily, practiced. “I’m only trying to figure things out.”
She studies me for a moment, and I know she can tell something isn’t right, but instead of pushing, she changes the subject. “I’m running the summer learning program at the elementary school this year. We’ve got loads of kids signed up, but we’re short on teachers for the creative stuff.”
“Let me guess, you want me to help?” I raise an eyebrow. “Did my mom put you up to this?”
“It’s only a couple afternoons a week.” Aspen’s eyes light up and she completely ignores my last question, which means yeah, Mom called her.
“These kids would flip to learn from a real artist. And it’s small stuff like finger painting, crafts, collages.
I mean it’s nothing fancy like you’re used to, but it’ll be fun and the pay is decent. ”
The thought of picking up a paintbrush in front of an audience makes my stomach turn. But it’s just kids. Surely I can finger paint a turtle. God, how embarrassing will it be if I can’t even finger paint?
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally as our food arrives. “That’s all I can promise right now.”
Aspen beams like I’ve already said yes. “That’s more than enough for me.”
At least with two jobs, I’ll be on my way to recovering from the debt Theo racked up.