Sweet Love - Mia Kayla Page 0,32

a professional in,” I said.

“What are you even talking about? We have the family concept. You thought of that, all on your own. It’s brilliant. We just need to expand on that.”

His eyes flipped to mine and then back to the road in front of us where his windshield wipers were going wild. “I don’t need anyone else. I have you. Raw, uninhibited talent. What you have in you is innate. I already have my marketing team. You’re just the missing piece.” There was a lightness in his tone, and it filled my heart.

I was so used to my mother telling me that my art was just for fun and that no one would ever take me seriously. But I would show her. This exhibit would show her.

“You sound just like my dad.” Nostalgia hit me full force, and I swallowed down the lump in the back of my throat. “He … he had me believe that I could do anything. Absolutely anything. Like my paintings would be in the Louvre or some museum where they would pay top dollar to showcase my work.” I waved a hand, dismissing my comment because, really, it sounded ridiculous. Me? At a museum. How crazy and absurd, and yet it was totally my daddy.

I exhaled a heavy sigh, one that was audible, and it had Connor gazing in my direction again.

“You should believe him,” he said, voice soft. “I want to know more about this incredible man.”

“Why?”

Sometimes, little glimpses of my dad would push through my thoughts. I didn’t really have anyone to talk to about him. And I missed him terribly. I thought about him on a daily basis, and there were times when I was drinking a caramel latte, and his face would push through my thoughts. I’d picture him sitting opposite me on the kitchen table with his black coffee in hand. We used to have regular coffee dates. It was everything. We’d even taken a class on how to work as a barista for a day.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just been talking about him way too much because I’ve been thinking about him way too much recently. I can’t help it.” Honesty seeped out of me.

It felt nice for once, not having to put up a front, not having any pretense. I wished I could talk to my mom about him, but she had Richard now, and it wouldn’t be the same.

“I want to know about him. Don’t be sorry.”

“Why?” I asked again because, seriously, why would he want to know?

“I wouldn’t call my family the conventional family. I mean, yeah, I have a dad and mom, and they’re married, but if we are branding toward family … we should use your family as an example, not mine.” He swallowed and tried to tame the bite back from his tone.

“I’m sorry.” Because I was. Because I felt bad for him.

“Nana says I shouldn’t blame them. That they worked hard, so we could have everything and not worry about money. But there’s this part of me that wishes they had just been around. Every game …” His voice softened. “I used to play football. And at every game, I would look at the stands, hoping they’d surprise me and just be there.” This time, his laugh had an edge. “Way to set myself up for disappointment. And that was why I decided that I wanted out. After college, I upped and moved to Manhattan, never looking back.”

I understood where he was coming from. I needed that affirmation from my parents. My dad had always been proud of me, and there was never a time that I doubted his love for my work or his love for me. I was Michelangelo or Picasso in his eyes. But in my mother’s eyes, that was a whole different story.

And maybe Connor accepted their relationship, but me, sometimes, I was still vying for my mother’s approval, for acknowledgment.

“I know how you feel. My mother is the opposite of my father. In high school, I had all these art fairs. My teachers would showcase my work and tell her and my father that I had talent.” I fiddled with my hands in my lap. “She’d always let me know what she thought of my work. ‘She does that for fun. It’ll never be a good job for her. How can one paint for a living? Do you even know anyone that paints for a living?’” My voice reached a high-pitched, motherly sound, mocking her. “And when