Chapter 8 Talia
TALIA
Missed Deadline
The knock on the front door comes right as I’m adding what I swear was going to be the perfect highlight.
“Shoot!” I jerk back too fast, dragging my brush across the canvas in a streak that absolutely was not part of the vision.
Great.
Now there’s a smudge cutting through what was supposed to be a soft gradient.
There’s also paint on my forearm.
And possibly my elbow.
I lean back to assess the damage and nearly knock over the jar of murky rinse water with my hip.
Fantastic.
My hair is twisted into a messy knot, strands already escaping and sticking to the side of my face. I’m wearing an oversized tee that used to be white but now carries the ghost of every color I’ve ever worked with.
For one wild second, I consider pretending I’m not home.
The knock comes again.
Louder this time.
More insistent.
I glance toward my private entrance.
No one ever knocks on my door.
Friends text.
Delivery drivers leave packages.
And my dad certainly doesn’t use this entrance.
Which means whoever it is knows I live here.
Or wants something.
I wipe my hands on a rag, which only spreads the paint more effectively, and head toward I wipe my hands on a rag, which only succeeds in spreading the paint more efficiently, and head toward the door with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I pass the paintings leaning against the walls, the sketchbooks stacked on the console table, the plant I constantly forget to water but that somehow refuses to die.
I open the door.
A courier stands there, holding a thick envelope.
“Miss Petrov?”
My stomach drops.
“Yes.”
“Delivery. Signature required.”
Of course it is.
I sign with a hand that’s steadier than I feel.
“Have a good day,” he says.
I shut the door gently and lean back against it.
The envelope feels heavy.
Official.
I don’t need to open it to know what’s inside.
My fingers tighten around the envelope.
I should open it.
I know I should.
It would be the mature thing to do.
But opening it means reading it.
And reading it means reality.
And reality means acknowledging it.
And acknowledging it means dealing with it.
I just can’t.
God, this is depressing.
I don’t want to face any of it.
I want to disappear into my painting instead.
Before I can change my mind, I move to my studio corner and slide the envelope into the bottom drawer of my flat file cabinet, tucking it beneath a stack of unfinished sketches and old charcoal studies.
I close the drawer carefully.
There.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Except my mind is a spoiled little brat and refuses to cooperate.
I exhale hard and stare at the drawer. My heart is still racing, but now it’s mixed with something else. Something like guilt, but also… defiance. Like I’m pushing back against an invisible hand on my shoulder.
My phone is in my back pocket. I pull it out and open my messages without thinking too much, because thinking too much is how I end up crying in a bathroom.
My sister’s name sits there like a bruise.
Katia.
I hover over the thread, thumb suspended, and I hate how quickly my chest tightens. Hate how automatic it is. Like my body knows disappointment before my brain even catches up.
I scroll the the most recent messages.
Me:
You okay?
It is unread. So is the one before that.
Me:
Please just tell me you’re alive.
My messages are a string of attempts, stacked like unanswered prayers.
I type another one anyway.
Me:
Hey. Just checking in. I miss you. Please text me when you can.
I stare at it for a second, then hit send.
Delivered.
And then nothing.
Of course.
I toss the phone onto my bed and press my palms against my eyes. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing through the familiar ache in my chest.
Then I pick up my paintbrush.
Because this is better than any therapy I’ve ever had.
My dad thinks it’s just a hobby. A phase. Something I’ll outgrow once I finally “get serious.”
The smell of acrylics wraps around me like a blanket. I pick up my palette and begin to paint.
***
For the next few days, I do what I always do when my life is too loud.
I make it quieter with color.
Morning comes and goes without me noticing.
My dad’s schedule runs like a machine—practices, meetings, film review, booster calls.
Sometimes I hear his voice in the hallway, barking into the phone. Sometimes I hear his front door open and close, but I don’t see him much.
It’s like we’re two enemies occupying the same territory.
When we do cross paths, we’re polite.
But it takes everything in me not to throw the words at him.
What did you do?
Why don’t you care?
Do you know that I got married?
I live in his house.
But I move through it like a ghost.
I paint until my shoulders ache. I paint until my hands cramp. I paint big canvases that swallow my frustrations whole, and small ones that feel like secrets.
Sometimes I think about Jake.
Not in a romantic way. Not in a swoony way.
More like… a splinter.
The way his mouth looked when he smiled, surprised by it.
The way his hands felt on my waist in that chapel, steadying me when I swayed.
The way he said my name once, low, like he didn’t mean to say it at all.
And then the coldness the next morning. The distance. The way he looked past me like I was a mistake he could erase.
I tell myself I don’t care.
I tell myself this whole marriage thing is just a hiccup.
I tell myself I’m just delaying signing because I’m overwhelmed, not because part of me likes the thought of being married to him.
And then another day passes, and another.
And my sister never reads my message.
On the sixth day, I run out of ultramarine.
It’s stupid, but it feels like an emergency. That particular shade is the heart of the piece I’m working on, the ocean-heavy background that makes everything else feel alive. Without it, the painting looks flat, unfinished, like it’s holding back.
I rummage through my supply cabinet, moving jars and tubes and brushes. I kneel, reaching into the back where I stash my extras.
My fingers brush paper.
Not canvas paper. Not sketch paper.
Crisp.
Legal.
My stomach drops so fast I actually make a sound, like I’ve been punched.
Slowly, I pull the stack out.
The annulment papers slide into view, still tucked in their neat little envelope, and it’s like the universe is tapping me on the forehead and going, hi, remember this? Remember how you’re avoiding your entire life?
I sit back on my heels, staring.
The deadline is printed in bold.
And it’s already passed.
My mouth goes dry again. “No… no, no.”
I flip through, frantic now. Maybe I’m reading it wrong. Maybe I imagined the date. Maybe there’s a grace period.
But the numbers don’t change.
I missed it.
My chest constricts until it feels hard to breathe. The room suddenly seems too small, the air too thick with paint fumes and panic.
I missed the deadline.
And now what?
Now the annulment isn’t just a simple signature. It’s going to be a problem. A delay. A complication.
And complications are exactly the kind of thing my father notices.
A laugh bubbles up, sharp and humorless. Because of course this happens. Of course I can’t even avoid disaster correctly.
My gaze blurs as my mind jumps ahead, too fast.
My dad finding out.
Not just that I got married, but that I got married without dating. That I got married drunkenly, impulsively, like some idiot teenager. That the man I married is his team captain, his asset, his symbol of discipline and leadership.
Coach Petrov will go berserk.
Not an annoyed lecture. Not a disappointed sigh.
Berserk.
He’ll look at me like I’m a liability. He’ll look at me like he looks at Katia.
I imagine him pacing with that tight jaw he gets when he’s furious, the one that makes his cheek flex. I imagine the words he’ll choose, clipped and sharp, designed to cut.
My hands shake so badly the papers rattle.
I drop them on the floor like they’ve burned me, and I stand up too fast, dizzy with the sudden surge of panic.
The room tilts. I grab the edge of a table to steady myself.
It’s too much.
The walls of this house feel closer than they did yesterday, like they’ve shifted inward while I wasn’t looking. Like the air itself has shifted.
I pace, one end of the studio to the other, bare feet slapping the floor. My heart is going so fast it feels like it’s trying to escape my ribs.
I need out.
Not like, a walk around the block out.
Out-out.
I start yanking a suitcase from the closet before I can talk myself out of it.
I throw clothes in without folding. Hoodies. Jeans. Leggings. Underwear. Whatever my hands grab.
My movements are frantic and messy.
I grab my toiletries bag and toss it in.
Then I start gathering painting supplies like they’re oxygen. I can’t take much, though. Only what fits. A few brushes. My favorite palette knife. A small set of acrylics. A couple of blank canvases.
My gaze catches on the stack of legal papers.
I pick them up carefully, my fingers suddenly unsteady.
I flip to the page with Jake’s address.
There it is.
I swallow hard, fold the papers, and shove them into my tote bag like I’m hiding contraband.
Then I grab my suitcase and head for the front door.
The lock clicks softly when I turn it. I slip outside like a thief, pulling the door shut behind me with excruciating care.
My car sits in the driveway, dusty from neglect. I toss my suitcase into the trunk, then my tote bag. My hands are shaking so badly I fumble with the keys.
I glance back at the house.
I slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go pale.
My phone sits in the cup holder. My sister’s unread text thread is still there, silent. My dad’s messages are piling up, unacknowledged. The annulment papers sit in my tote bag like a physical weight.
The idea of seeing Jake again makes my stomach flip, but the entire drive over I tell myself it’s just something I ate that didn’t sit right.
Yeah, sure.