Chapter Thirteen
MILA
My mom was waiting when I came downstairs Friday morning. Coffee mug already drained, jacket tossed over a chair, her car keys spinning once between her fingers before she caught them.
Her long brown hair was pulled in a high ponytail, sunglasses perched on her head. She wore shorts and a loose white tank that showed the strap of her bikini, flip-flops tapping against the tile. A striped beach bag sat at her feet, as if it had been packed hours ago.
I stopped on the last step, blinking. Mom didn’t dress like this on a weekday morning—never ready for anything but the office.
“You’re not going to school today.” No preamble. Her grin tugged wide, a mischievous spark in her eyes.
I blinked. “Uh… what?”
Her gaze was steady, mouth tipped in something between a challenge and a dare. “We both need a break. Hurry and change. I’ve got a to-go coffee and bagel ready for the road. Let’s go.”
I stared a second longer, waiting for the catch. For the but... But you can’t miss class. But I’ve got work. But nothing.
Excitement rushed through me before I could stop it, relief loosening something in my chest. The promise of sun and waves was too good to pass up.
“Give me two minutes.”
I bolted upstairs, tore out of my jeans, and tugged on shorts and a tank. I shoved my Sketchbook into my bag and kicked off my sneakers for flip-flops. By the time I clattered back down, pulse already lighter, she was shouldering her bag.
It was unseasonably warm out, the perfect day to play hooky. We were halfway through loading the car when my phone buzzed.
Avery: Where are you? You’re late.
I thumbed a message back fast. Taking the day off. Mom’s orders. Don’t freak.
Three dots appeared, then—
Avery: Fine. But you’re coming to the game tonight. No excuses.
Another buzz right after, Luke this time.
Luke: Where are you?
Me: No school for me today. Beach with Mom. Both of us needed it. Play hard tonight.
No reply came, but I tucked the phone away and breathed easier for having sent it.
We drove with the windows cracked, ocean air shoving its way into the car.
The closer we got to the coast, the lighter my chest felt.
By the time the sand stretched out in front of us, I’d almost forgotten the mess waiting back at school—the committee, Elise’s calculated smirk, Logan’s predatory gaze following me down the hall.
We claimed a patch of beach not far from the pier. The air carried a faint chill—it was late autumn, after all—but the sun burned high and fierce, pretending it was still summer. There was not a cloud in the sky, just endless blue fading paler at the horizon.
Goosebumps rose along my arms until the sand’s warmth sank in. Golden grains clung to my skin, dazzling like ground glass under the light. The waves moved in shades of slate and turquoise, foam scattering white lace across the darker water.
It felt unreal, skipping school as if none of it mattered. As if I’d stepped out of the chaos and into someone else’s painting—broad strokes of sky and sea, too vivid to be real.
Mom sat, sunglasses sliding down her nose, eyes scanning the horizon as though she could read answers out of the tide. We stretched out on the blanket.
“So. College.”
Mom dropped the topic I dreaded having with her. Pinching my lips together, I didn’t answer. It wouldn’t do any good. I could tell by the determined set to her shoulders that she was going to keep pressing the topic.
“You want a different life than this, right?” she shot back.
I groaned. “Fine. College.”
“You’ve got applications due soon,” she reminded. “And recommendation letters. Who’s on your list?”
“Ms. Lewis.” I hesitated. “Art teacher.”
That earned me a slow exhale. “Mila—”
“I know what you’re going to say.” My voice went sharper than I meant. “But she knows me. Really knows me. Not just grades or transcripts or how I look on paper.”
Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t interrupt. Which somehow made it worse.
So I pushed. “You’ve always been against an art degree. Against me painting. Just admit it.”
Finally, her sunglasses came off. The look underneath was tired. Too honest. “Fine. I have. Because it doesn’t pay, Mila. Because you’re too smart to pin your future on commissions and galleries that chew people up. Because I want better for you than scraping by on someone else’s whim.”
The words stung. I sat up straighter. “It’s not a whim. It’s the only thing that feels like mine.”
Her expression softened, but her tone didn’t. “I know. I was good, too. Brushes, canvas, the whole thing. But I was just as good with numbers. Better, maybe. That’s why I’m where I am.”
“You hate where you are.”
Silence. Just waves breaking and gulls cutting the air.
Her hair whipped in the breeze as she finally said, “I didn’t have choices, Mila.
Didn’t finish high school, never set foot in a college class.
I stacked a résumé with schools I never attended and jobs I never had and prayed no one looked too closely.
Then I learned on the fly. Listened to men I dated talk about stocks, spreadsheets, and fiscal reports and tucked it away for later.
Taught myself the rest. It worked. But it isn’t an ideal life.
It’s survival. And I don’t want that for you. ”
The confession hollowed me out, her words hitting home.
Because wasn’t that exactly what Blackwood felt like most days?
Elise pulling strings, board members moving me like a pawn.
Mom had lied her way into boardrooms. I was being shoved into them whether I wanted to be there or not. “I’m not you,” I whispered.
“No,” she agreed. “You’re smarter. You’ve got chances I didn’t. And I’ll be damned if I watch you throw them away.”
The fight drained out of me all at once, leaving something more raw in its place. I dragged my fingers through the sand, watching it spill back in golden streams. “But I’m not you when it comes to numbers. I don’t think in margins or spreadsheets. I never have. I don’t… see the world that way.”
Her lips parted, a flash of something similar to regret there. “You’re right. That’s me, not you.”
“So what’s me, then?”
For once, she didn’t answer right away.
She went quiet. Then, softer: “So maybe you need something else. Something that lets you keep art but doesn’t starve you for it. Graphic design. Marketing. You see color, space, angles in ways other people don’t. You could sell an image, shape it, and still keep painting.”
“Marketing?” I blinked.
“You’ve got business classes already,” she pointed out. “Add marketing next semester. Test it out.”
I rolled the idea around, fingers knotting in the edge of the blanket. “It could be… a fallback. If I need it.”
Her eyes warmed. “That’s all I’m asking.”
For once, it felt like a truce.
We talked more easily after that. About letters, deadlines, where I wanted to apply. Then about Blackwood, the move, the fact she was still “dating” Principal Miller.
She grimaced, rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses. “Dating. That’s generous. More a PR arrangement than anything else.”
I smirked. “And when it’s over?”
“When it’s over, it’s over.” She shrugged. “I’ll be relieved.”
That could’ve been the end of it, but I pressed. “Anyone else?”
Her gaze cut sideways at me, but her smile shifted—softer. “Edwardo.”
“The gym guy?” But I knew exactly who she’d meant. There had always been something easy and natural—electric even—between them. We’d stayed with him last year, but I wanted to push Mom just a little.
“The gym guy,” she echoed, and her voice went light in a way I hadn’t heard in months. “He was more than that, Mila. A friend. A temptation I couldn’t afford.”
“Because of where he lives,” I guessed.
She nodded. “Too close to where I came from. I couldn’t stay there. But…” Her shoulders rose then fell. “Who knows where life will go once you’re at college.”
Her voice lingered with something wistful.
We ate the bagels she’d packed, legs stretched across the blanket, crumbs carried off by gulls bold enough to circle close until we shooed them.
After, we walked the shoreline, the surf rushing in to nip at our ankles before pulling back, daring us to chase it.
Our laughter rose with the tide, and for a while, it felt as if the weight I carried had been left somewhere far behind, buried under textbooks and committee agendas.
The beach wasn’t empty—there were families with toddlers building crooked sandcastles, a couple of surfers paddling out, office workers who’d escaped for an hour of sun.
Not crowded but not ours alone either. By the time noon hit, more people drifted down from the boardwalk, unwrapping sandwiches, soaking up light while they could.
The hum of their voices folded into the crash of the waves, a rhythm steady enough to make the whole place feel alive.
We lingered until the shadows stretched long and the sun mellowed into gold. The tide foamed across our feet as we cut back toward the boardwalk, and that was when I spotted Colleen, the woman in charge of the boardwalk art studio.
She stood outside the studio, paint on her sleeve, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear. She ended the call fast when she saw me.
“Mila.”
I jogged across the sand. “Hey.”
Her smile was warm but tight. “I’m glad I caught you. Our lease isn’t being renewed, which means we’ve got two weeks to clear everything out. I’ve been trying to reach everyone, but since you’re here—”
It hit like ice water down my spine. “What?”
She nodded toward the building. “Come inside. You’ll want your supplies. Your work.”
My mom and I followed her in.
The familiar smell of turpentine and old wood hit me first. Sunlight spilled through the tall front windows, catching on glass jars and half-finished canvases.
My pieces were stacked against the back wall. Oils. Colors I’d fought for.
My mom froze. I watched her eyes move over the pieces—portraits, beach landscapes, scraps of memory turned paint. Shock flickered there. “You never showed me these,” she whispered.
I worried my lower lip. “At home, it’s just sketches.”
She stepped closer, fingers hovering near the edge of a canvas without touching. “Mila… this is talent. This is more than a hobby.”
Colleen overheard, drifting closer with a smile. “She’s right. You’ve developed something real. You should submit. I know a gallery owner who would love to take a serious look. I’ll make a call before you reach out. Smooth the way.”
I couldn’t breathe. The floor tilted beneath me.
My mom looked at me, fierce pride hidden under her usual armor. I wanted to believe. I wanted it so badly it hurt.
We loaded the car with everything—brushes, paints, canvases balanced in the back seat. I hugged Colleen, promised her I’d stay in touch. She brushed it off with a grin, saying she’d be fine, that she usually landed on her feet.
But the hollowness in my chest didn’t ease. The studio had been my sanctuary. And now it was gone.
I planned to ask Luke what the hell had happened. Then I sat back, sketchbook balanced on my knees, pencil loose between my fingers, the pages crowded with lines that always led back to him.