Chapter 45
Forty-Five
KIERAN
“Hi, darling,” Mam trills on the other line.
“How is the Philippines?” Her dark curls, which I got from her, are spun and clasped to the back of her head, tufts sticking up from behind her.
Next to her is Mum, reading glasses on and staring at her phone, her pale blonde hair cropped in her signature style, just right below the ears.
All the talking points we rehearsed fly out of my head. I’m equal parts comforted and nervous to see them.
“The Philippines is great,” I say. Neutral territory. “Loads of fun.” Good news to prime them for the bad. Mum is going to be pissed when she finds out I might have to pull out of Galerie Riboulet.
“Oh, yeah?” Mam grins.
“I got your email,” Mum says. She squints at her screen and pulls it closer to her face. “What is this? Blue... Moon... Studios.”
“Right.” I steel myself and draw in a deep breath. “So, I was thinking... Well, I met someone—”
“You met someone?” Mam asks, tone incredulous already. I knew she’d react that way.
“Natalia’s sister,” I say. In my head, I apologize to Isabel. It’s the only way I can get Mam to back off and not go into her whole spiel about associating with the right sort of people.
“I didn’t know Natalia had a sister,” Mam says.
“Yeah.” If I tell her they’re only half sisters, that’ll invite more questions. Mam’s like a shark smelling blood in the water when it comes to drama and gossip.
“So, you met someone,” Mum prompts, looking at the camera over her glasses.
“And I’m thinking, maybe I could move here?
Get my own place, set up a studio, work with local galleries.
The sun is different here; golden hour is crazy.
I’ve painted so much since I got here”—which is true, if only Natalia hadn’t slashed some of them—“and I just feel, you know, inspired. Like the ground is fertile for my growth here.”
“You have an exhibit in three weeks,” Mum says.
“Yeah. About that.” I consider leaving out the fight. But why should I protect my friends from my parents’ criticism? Fuck that. I explain it as simply as I could: how Natalia felt for me, how she treated Isabel. How she found out and kicked both of us out.
“But I’m okay,” I tell them. “I’m staying at Isabel’s best friend’s house. They have a guest room.”
“I can’t believe Natalia would treat you like that!” Mam exclaims. “I never would have expected!”
“How many paintings do you have left?” Mum asks.
“This can be fixed. You can stitch the canvas together. We can lean into it. Something about tearing at the seams. Like Kintsugi, but with thread. Maybe the same color thread to keep things uniform—or to show that everything is connected. Like the red string of fate?” Leave it to Mum to think creatively.
Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery and leaving the cracks visible using urushi lacquer mixed with powdered gold. It’s about embracing an object’s flaws as a reflection of its beauty, resilience, renewal, and history. Mum has a few bowls like that at home.
“I’ll look into it,” I say. It’s not something I’ve ever done before. I’ve dabbled in other mediums, but I’ve never mixed them. Maybe there’s something worth exploring there.
“So…” I trail off. “You guys are okay with me moving?” As an adult, I don’t need their permission. As their son, I know I owe it to them to at least ask.
My parents exchange looks. “So, you met someone and now you want to uproot your life and move all the way to the Philippines, because—what did you say? The ground is fertile, and the sun is nice.” Mum asks.
Yeah, I should have stuck to our rehearsed talking points. Mum sounds unimpressed but also amused. The pregnant pause is unbearable.
Mam sighs. “Kieran—”
“No, no, Brigid,” Mum interrupts. “I think this is a great idea.”
“Sloane!” Mam protests at the same time I blurt, “You do?”
“Well, of course!” Mum exclaims. “It’s an artist’s rite of passage to find their muse and to pursue it with all they’ve got. Of course, it often ends in tragedy—no one person can sustain being the source of any artist’s work, believe me, it’s a chore—but it makes for great art.”
“Sloane,” Mam protests again, voice taking on a defeated tone.
“Look, why don’t we give it a trial run?” Mum says. “One year. I’ll fund it myself. Honestly, Kieran, I didn’t want to say it, but your last collection was—”
I grimace.
“Lackluster, to say the least,” Mum finishes. “I worried you were losing your touch. But if the ground is as fertile there as you say, and the sun is nice—” Mam rolls her eyes.
I’m too surprised that Mum is actually going for this to care about her comment about my work. I mean, she’s not wrong. Even before my block, I was already struggling to produce anything worthwhile. I was on the verge of burnout, and my last exhibit pushed me into it.
“I’ve signed a contract for a show with Blue Moon Studios,” I say, “for October. It’s a capsule show. I’ll be exhibiting new paintings then, too.”
“Oh, that’s perfect!” Mum exclaims. “Maybe we can come. What are we doing in October, Bridge?”
“I’ll have to check.”
“We can meet your girlfriend then, too,” Mum says.
“What’s her name?” Mam asks. I tell her it’s best for them to meet in person, because I know as soon as this call ends, she’s going to hop on Facebook to stalk Isabel.
“Show me what you’re working on, darling,” Mum says, “and I’ll cut you a deal. If you can book three exhibits in a year and sell the majority of your paintings in each one, we’ll let you stay. We’ll revisit this arrangement year by year. How does that sound?”
Ideal, though I certainly have to get prolific to meet those demands. I guess having your parents as your patrons is a double-edged sword.
“Where are you going to live?” Mam asks.
“Isabel—”
“Isabel?!” Mam exclaims.
Shit. “Her best friend, Rocío, owns a few properties. Well, her parents do. They’re willing to let me rent one out at a discounted price.”
“How many bedrooms?” Mam asks.
“Go for two,” Mum says, “you need a dedicated workspace.”
“There’s one that has one bedroom, and another that has two. That one’s currently unfurnished, though.”
“That’s fine. You have your card. Just keep your receipts and email them to me,” Mum says.
“Sloane,” Mam says again, this time with a tired sigh.
“What? He’s twenty-five. He needs to leave the nest at some point.”
“But Manila? Why Manila?”
“It’s not forever, Brigid. Who knows? Maybe he’ll get sick of her and move back sooner than you think.”
“That’s not happening,” I say.
“Then you get married and move back here,” Mum offers with a shrug. “I think this is exciting! It’s new horizons! It’ll be good for Kieran.”
A familiar figure passes in the background. It falters and does a double take. “Is that Kieran? Hi, Kieran!” My sister Felicity’s face pops up between our parents’. She’s nearly identical to Mam, with the same dark curls, sharp nose, and full pink lips that Mum says is in a perennial pout.
I grin at her. “Hey, Fliss.”
“Your brother’s got a girlfriend,” Mam says.
“No way. It finally happened?”
Mum laughs, nodding. “It finally happened.”
“That makes it sound like you guys were betting on it,” I say.
“Of course we were,” Felicity answers. “I thought it’d never happen. But Mum had faith in you.”
“Send me pictures of the place,” Mam says, “and don’t sign anything before we’ve reviewed the contract.”
I’m already itching to tell Isabel and Rocío the news. “Okay, Mam.”
“And get me in touch with Blue Moon Studios,” Mum says. “I want to look into their catalog.”
We switch over to catching up on what’s been happening back home—Felicity has dumped her boyfriend-of-the-month again, citing her favorite reason: boredom—and Mam is perfecting her lemon sponge cake.
Mum is knee-deep in work at the gallery, having secured an exclusive collaboration with this up-and-coming artist from Middle America.
It’s funny how same-y it all is; they’re all still doing the same things they always do. I’m the only one who’s changed.
I can’t wait to see who I’ll be, as an artist, a boyfriend, and a person, in a year’s time.