3. Sienna
THREE
Sienna
I let you go, I closed that door
Sienna’s Brownstone
482 3rd Street, Park Slope, Brooklyn
1:19 PM
The emerald green paint looks nothing like the "elegant neutral" that permeated the Upper East Side apartment I shared with Marcus. I drag the brush across the dresser's curved front, each stroke feeling like an act of rebellion.
A knock at my door is followed immediately by Emma's voice. "If you make me stand here juggling green juice and painting supplies for one more second, I'm dumping this carrot ginger on your new hardwood floors."
I grin, wiping my hands on my old Clemson t-shirt before opening the door. Emma bustles in, her dark hair escaping its messy bun, glasses sliding down her nose. Paint already stains her overalls, though we haven't even started.
"You couldn't have found a first-floor apartment?" She sets our coffees on my kitchen counter. "Or at least one with an elevator?"
"You're the one who showed me this place."
"Because you said, and I quote, 'I need a home that doesn't look like it belongs in Architectural Digest .'" She surveys my paint job. "Mission accomplished."
I step back to study the dresser. "Too bright?"
"Perfect." Emma pulls supplies from her bag. "Marcus would hate it."
"That's the point." If it’s possible, my friends might hate my ex-husband more than I do.
She hands me my drink, and we sink onto my paint-stained drop cloth. The February sun streams through my bay windows, warming the space. Somewhere uptown, Ollie's probably having lunch with Marcus's parents, eating off their formal china, being reminded to keep his elbows off the table.
"Stop it." Emma bumps my shoulder.
"Stop what?"
"That thing where you imagine every perfect, proper moment Ollie's having without you." She pulls her knees to her chest. "He's probably missing your Saturday pancake dance parties."
I take a sip of coffee to hide my smile. "How did we both end up here? Remember when you swore you'd never move back to help with your parents' restaurant?"
"Golden Dragon's been feeding Chinatown for thirty years." Emma laughs. "Dad still can't believe I spent four years in South Carolina just to come back and teach art to tiny New Yorkers six blocks from where I grew up."
"At least you had roots here. I followed a man in a suit who promised to take care of everything."
"And now you're following your own path." Emma runs her hand along the dresser's mid-century curves. "Starting with furniture that would give Margaret Walker a stroke."
I dip my brush back in the paint. "Think his mother's already called to report that Ollie's wearing the dinosaur shirt again?"
"The one with glitter scales?" Emma grins. "The one you found at that street fair? God, I love your quirky style."
"The very one that clashes with the Preston-Walker family aesthetic."
Emma starts working on the dresser's other side. Her brush strokes are confident and artistic. Mine are still hesitant, like I'm waiting for someone to tell me I'm doing it wrong. I used to have that creative confidence. I’m working on getting it back, one restoration project at a time.
"You know what I love about this place?" She gestures around my half-furnished apartment with her brush. "It feels like you."
"You mean it's a mess?"
"Ha! I mean it's alive. That mausoleum on Park Avenue? That wasn't you. Those white sofas you couldn't sit on? That kitchen you couldn't cook in? That wasn't living."
My phone buzzes. I flip it over and see that it's Marcus. I'm sure he's calling with some passive-aggressive edict. I ignore it.
"Speaking of cooking," Emma continues, "when are you launching your graphic design site? That logo you made for Dad's new delivery menu? He's gotten so many compliments. He can probably refer you to half of Chinatown and pay your rent for a year."
"I don't know." I focus on a particularly stubborn spot of old varnish. "Marcus always said?—"
"Marcus always said a lot of things." Emma's voice carries an edge I rarely hear. "He said you couldn't cook, but your dumplings are better than our prep cook's. He said you weren't business-minded, but you rebuilt Golden Dragon's entire brand in a weekend."
"It's different now. I have Ollie to think about."
"Exactly. You have Ollie. Not Marcus. Not his opinions." She sets down her brush. "You can work while he's at school. Build your portfolio. Be the mom who shows her son that starting over is brave, not broken."
My phone buzzes again. Marcus. This time it's a text.
Ollie told me he doesn't like the public school you have him in in Brooklyn. We need to discuss the private school in TriBeCa if you want to keep him in school downtown. That PS won't cut it.
"See?" I hold up the phone. "Still trying to control every detail."
"Then it's a good thing this dresser is just the beginning." Emma picks up her brush again. "Next week, we're painting your whole bedroom that shade of pink Marcus hated."
I set my phone face-down. "Tell me about your students instead. How's the mural coming along?"
"Nice deflection." Emma starts on the dresser's delicate trim. "Back to my point. You're already getting freelance work. Your Charleston friend's coffee shop. That new yoga studio in Park Slope. Dad's probably going to recommend you to, like, six other restaurant owners. You know the Chinese all band together. You'll have more Chinatown work than you'll know what to do with."
"Favors for friends don't equal real work."
"Those are paying clients who love your work." She pushes her glasses up with her wrist, leaving a smudge of green on her nose. "Remember that girl who designed all the flyers for music shows back in Charleston? The one who had a different color in her hair every week? I miss her sometimes."
The mention of music shows makes my stomach twist. I focus on evening out my brush strokes.
"I'm not that girl anymore."
"No, you're not. You're stronger now." Emma stands back to survey our work. "But maybe it's time to let a little bit of her out. The part that took risks. The one who believed in herself before Marcus convinced her not to."
"You know what?" I hold up one of the vintage drawer pulls. "I think Ollie should help me put these on. He loves anything that sparkles, no matter what his grandmother thinks."
Emma's smile spreads slowly and instantly fills me with warmth. "Now that sounds like my friend from Charleston."
The dresser's starting to transform, old wood coming alive under the bold color. Like it just needed someone to see past what it used to be, to what it could become.
"Hey Em?" I carefully set down my brush. "Thank you. Not just for helping with this, but for... you know."
"For dragging you to Brooklyn Flea when you were hiding in that sterile Upper East Side tomb?" She bumps my shoulder with hers. "For showing you that Park Slope exists? For convincing you that life's too short for beige?"
"All of it." I wipe my hands on my shirt again. "Sometimes I forget that girl from Charleston didn't completely disappear. I’m glad you knew me then and still love the me I’ve become. And more importantly, you’re going to help me find that part of me again."
"She's still in there." Emma starts gathering the drop cloths. "One emerald green dresser at a time."
My phone buzzes for the fourth time. I glance at the screen and laugh.
"What?" Emma peers over my shoulder.
"Ollie convinced his grandfather to get ice cream. Got chocolate all over his dinosaur shirt." I show her the angry text from Marcus. "Apparently, this is proof I'm not installing proper manners."
"Good for him." Emma grins. "Speaking of food, want to order a late lunch from Golden Dragon? Dad's testing a new soup recipe."
I look at our handiwork. The dresser stands proud against my bedroom wall, still wet but already perfect in its imperfection. Nothing like the manufactured elegance of my old life.
"I can make us those dumplings your dad taught me to make." I stretch my back. "I need a break and I already have all of the ingredients. We can eat them in front of the TV. Maybe even on the couch."
Emma gasps in mock horror. "Margaret Walker would never recover."
"Good thing she's not invited."
8:01 PM
I uncork a bottle of red while Brooke raids my fridge. The sounds of Ollie's white noise machine drift from down the hall.
"Your kitchen's so cozy now." Brooke emerges with cheese and crackers. "So much better than that sterile marble monstrosity Marcus insisted on for your renovation. Just saying."
"God, everything was white and chrome." I pour generous glasses. "Not that anything's wrong with that look. I just need a little warmth. Now I can cook without worrying about messing it up."
"Speaking of cooking—" Brooke takes a long sip. "Emma texted about your dresser makeover. Said you're channeling your Charleston self in all kinds of creative ways?"
I arrange the crackers on a plate. "She's exaggerating."
"Is she though?" Brooke tops off her glass. "You know, in the four years I've known you, this is the first time I've seen glimpses of the girl Emma talks about. The artist who designed band posters and dyed her hair purple."
"Normal college rebellion." I lean against the counter. "We all have to grow up."
"Growing up doesn't mean you have to lose yourself, you know," she says with a tone that reminds me of something my mom would say.
"I'm not sure you would have hung out with me on the Upper East Side when we met if I had purple hair."
"You give me no credit! That would have drawn us together, Honey!"
"Ha. I'm sure. Easy to say now that you love me!"
"It's true. Seriously, though. This divorce is your chance to find yourself again. I love what you did with the dresser. Let's encourage that creative Sienna hiding in there to come out and play more often. And let's dye our hair purple!"
"I'm trying to find a way to tap into that creative side again. I'm thinking about doing graphic design. I'm nervous, but it would be the perfect job to do while O is in school."
"You should totally do that!" Brooke leans forward, excited. "What made you stop in the first place?"
I take a long sip of wine, memories surfacing that I usually try to keep buried. "That's... complicated. Before Marcus, before all of this, I thought I had it all figured out."
"What happened?"
"Callum." His name still catches in my throat sometimes. "We were together since Freshman orientation. He was in this band that played at The Royal American every weekend. I'd sit at the bar, designing their posters between sets, completely in love with the music. With him."
"What changed?"
"Some douchebag discovered him and told him he had to move to Nashville to make it." I trace the rim of my wine glass. "It was his dream, you know? Who was I to stand in the way of that? He promised he'd come back for me once he got established."
"That seems logical. What other choice did you have?"
"I guess I didn't put up a fight because I thought it was temporary. But he left and..." I pause, taking another sip. "He never came back like he said he would. In fact, the day he left he never took or responded to a single call or text. Poof. Gone. It was like our whole relationship had been a dream."
"Oh, Si..." Brooke's voice is gentle. "That must have been devastating."
"Marcus was there through all of it. He was just a friend then, someone who'd listen when I needed to talk. He'd bring me coffee during long study sessions at the library, check on me when I was having rough days."
"Sounds like he knew exactly what he was doing."
I nod slowly. "Looking back now, I can see it. He'd casually mention seeing pictures of Callum with other women or hearing about his success through mutual friends. Each story was like a knife to the heart, and Marcus was always there to pick up the pieces."
"That manipulative bastard."
"The thing is, I didn't see it then. I was so... broken. And then..." I pause, the weight of what comes next sitting heavy in my chest. "Then I found out I was pregnant."
Brooke sets down her glass, her full attention on me. "Wait, what?"
"It was the worst timing. Callum was gone, and I'd had this one night with Marcus when I was particularly low. I didn't know who... I mean, I couldn't be sure..."
"Oh my God, Si." Brooke reaches for my hand. "Does Callum know?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. I shake my head, unable to meet her eyes. "I tried. God, I tried so hard to reach him. I called, emailed, and even tried to find the producer guy from Nashville. But it was like Callum vanished completely. The moment he left Charleston, it was like..." I swallow hard. "Like I never existed to him."
"And you didn't know who..." Brooke trails off delicately.
"No." I take a shaky breath. "The timing... it could have been either of them. I was so lost after Callum left, and Marcus was there, being so supportive. One night, after too much wine and too many tears about Callum, Marcus, and I..." I close my eyes, the memory still painful. "It was just once. But then weeks later, when I found out I was pregnant..."
"What did you do?"
"I panicked." My voice cracks. "Marcus, though... he stepped up immediately. Offered to help, to be there for me no matter what. He even suggested we get married, said we could figure out paternity later, that it didn't matter to him."
"Of course he did," Brooke mutters.
"When the paternity test showed Marcus was the father..." I pause, the guilt of what I'm about to admit weighing heavily. "Part of me was relieved. Because at least I knew. But part of me..." I can't finish the sentence.
"Wished it had been Callum's," Brooke finishes softly.
I nod, wiping away a tear. "Is that terrible? To wish your child had a different father?"
"No, honey. It's human." Brooke squeezes my hand. "So Callum never knew? About any of it?"
"How could he? He'd made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me anymore. And once I knew Ollie was Marcus's..." I shrug helplessly. "It seemed pointless to keep trying. Marcus was there, offering stability and a future. Callum was gone, living his dream, never looking back. It felt like the responsible choice."
"The safe choice," Brooke corrects gently.
"Yeah." I manage a weak smile. "The safe choice."
Before I can say more, my phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Emma lights up the screen:
Si - This just popped up on my FYP
tiktok.com/watch/callumreid_pinnacle_signing_48392
"What is it?" Brooke asks, noticing my sudden tension.
With shaking hands, I click the link. The TikTok shows a series of quick cuts between Callum performing at some small venue and him sitting in Pinnacle Records' gleaming offices, signing papers. He resembles the boy who broke my heart six years ago, just more polished, more sure of himself, with shorter hair and a fancier wardrobe.
The caption reads:
"Watch unknown indie artist Callum Reid sign life-changing deal with Pinnacle Records #musicindustry #indiemusic #pinnaclerecords"
The video already has millions of views.
And just like that, the past I've tried so hard to bury comes rushing back. Great fucking timing.