Page 131 of Off-Limits

“HiDottie, your art is stunning.”

I laugh awkwardly at the praise before she wraps me in a small embrace.

We weren’t close in high school, but we were friendly, and we always had time for each other. Stepping back from the hug, I offer my thanks and watch Paige’s hand drop as she offers me a small smile. I know she’s thinking of my mother’s funeral, but she doesn’t say anything, which I’m thankful for.

We fall into comfortable conversation for the next fifteen minutes, her filling me on their life since graduation, and their plans moving forward. Levi locks eyes with me briefly before flicking back to his wife, and I’m reminded of a time I was dared to kiss his half-brother, Nash, the arrogant jerk basketballer. The last I heard, he’d made it into the NBA. Good for him, though. He got out of this godforsaken place.

Levi’s gaze hovers on Paige, the fierce love still evident and burning bright in his chocolate-coloured eyes, even after all these years.

Damon runs his hand up and down my back, bringing me back to the present and I tune in to hear him chatting away with Levi about guy stuff. I smile and nod at what Paige says, but her words are barely registering because I can feel my mind drifting to darker places, ones I don’t wish to visit again.

She should be here.

My mum should be here with me tonight, but all I have is fractured memories and regrets that we couldn’t rekindle our relationship sooner, before her premature death.

Mr. Hargrove calls my name, effectively snapping me from my thoughts. I say goodbye to Paige, Levi and Sawyer, gripping the champagne flute in my hand tightly like a lifeline, knowing it’s my turn to step up and say a little bit about myself and my art.

I hate being the centre of attention, but here we are.

Straightening my spine, I give Damon a kiss, and hand him my glass before walking toward the podium. With every step I take, I feel the many questioning eyes on me, but I pay them no mind, keeping my head up.

I take the stage, tapping the microphone before I begin. The sound echoes around us, and a few people clear their throats. Swallowing, I begin.

“Hello everyone, my name is Dorothy Wilmott, and I’ve been an artist since I could remember.”

I dive into a semi detailed story of my life, without the juicy details, trying to focus on the positivity and creativity that my art has gifted me with over the years. However, every time I’m asked a question about my parents and their support, I feel my throat closing up, but I refuse to fall down the dark rabbit hole tonight.

“They enjoyed my art” I say, smiling, the lie burning my tongue.

“And what about your mother? She’s died, right?” Someone calls out, and I swallow the saliva collecting in my throat and the tears burning at the corner of my eyes.

“Yes, she did. She was very supportive, especially over the month before she passed. Any more questions?” I say, trying to deviate the subject.

I answer questions for another five minutes or so and call for the last question. An older lady at the back puts her hand up and steps through the crowd in a long, elegant gold dress, pushing a loose strand of greying hair from her eyes. Her jewellery glints from the light as she smiles at me.

“Are you willing to sellThe Caged Girl?” she asks, and my throat ceases to work, especially when I look behind her, and see a familiar set of hazel eyes.

Tears collect in mine as hushed murmurs and conversation takes route. The lady waits patiently, unwavering in her gaze on me but I can’t focus on her.

My dad stands behind her. He’s dressed nicely, his hair styled with gel like he used to do when I was younger, and his face is cleanly shaved. He looks… good. He gives me a sad smile before it morphs into a genuine one, and I can see the few tears that glide down his weathered face as he gives me a nod.

It takes me a moment to realise tears are falling down my face as well, but then it dawns on me.

He’s telling me to let go of the little girl inside of me.

To sell the painting.

Swallowing, I keep my eyes on my dad but address the woman.

“I am.”

“Good. I shall call you tomorrow so we can discuss.”

With that, she glides through the crowd, brushing shoulders with my dad before disappearing.

I’m about to move from the podium, but I’m stilted when my dad shakes his head. He gives me one last smile and mouths three words I’ve died to hear my entire life.

I love you.