I should have shown up to your house the night before graduation and apologized for the rumors and for my behavior at prom. I should have told you that the salutatorian and the valedictorian needed to be there together. And I should have joked with you about the fact that technically we should have both been valedictorians, about how it would have happened if I hadn’t purposely flunked a few tests in English, just to get you to tutor me.
I thought about you all summer, so much so that I pulled my acceptance from Harvard and switched to Western Peak. I applied for their law program the second you told me you were going there, so imagine how stunned I was freshman year when “Mia Gray” was nowhere to be found in the student directory.
Without you, I had no confidante, no right hand person to entrust all my secrets to. And ever since we broke up, I’ve had to pay people to listen to how I feel.
I’m not sure if you’ll ever read this letter. I’m not sure if I’ll give this to you and tell you what it is, but if you happen to read it, if you happen to understand why we broke up the way that we did, and why I honestly feel that you’re the only girl that I’ll ever love, please text me and tell me that you read it. Or tell me that you understand.
Love,
Dean.
MIA: I read it.
Chapter 41
MIA
Six weeks later...
The small storefront I’m using for my show tonight looks more like an abandoned warehouse than a place to hold a gallery showing, but that’s exactly why I picked it.
Every piece I’ll be showing off tonight is emotional and soft, and I want the room to be a direct contrast so people will get the full effect. I’ve sent out four hundred invitations, mostly to clients I previously worked with at the Hamilton Array, and all but fifteen have confirmed that they will be making an appearance tonight.
A case of wine and a chilled box of premier cheeses and grapes are currently in transit, and Autumn and Jacob are running all over Portland right now to help me with a few last minute errands.
As I reposition one of my larger paintings against the wall, I hear someone knocking at the front door. Since everyone who is in on the show knows to use the rear entrance, I assume that it’s a client trying to get an early peek. I drape a sheet over the painting that’s closest to the door and then I walk over.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I pull the door’s handle. “The show doesn’t start for another four—” I stop talking once I see my mother standing in front of me.
Dressed in all blue and looking magazine perfect as always, she clears her throat. “I heard you have a show tonight.”
“Who’d you hear that from?” I cross my arms. “No one I know talks to you.”
She looks hurt by my statement, but she quickly forces a smile.
“Eric told me. I just met with him over lunch.”
“Which Eric? Surely, you’re not talking about my brother or the son you’ve disowned for all these years?”
“Mia, can I...” She looks directly into my eyes.
“Can I please come in and talk to you for a minute?”
“I only have five to spare,” I say, opening the door wider so she can come in. “As you can see, today is a really big day for me and my hobby.”
She follows me inside and I shut the door behind us. I watch as she walks around the room, peeking under the cloths at every piece, staring at the few I’ve already hung up on some of the walls.
“Is this really what you think of me?” she asks, pointing to her portrait in the far right corner.
The picture features her in all red paint, but her face is made up entirely of the words “dream killer,” “Harvard pusher,” “spirit crusher” and “despair.” Someone would have to look very closely to make out the tiny words, but as close as she’s standing, I’m sure she sees every one of them.
“No, that’s not what I think of you.” I cross my arms, smiling at the memory of how many weeks that thing took me to complete. “It’s exactly who you are. Anyway, you said you needed a minute to talk about something. What exactly is it?”
“I’ve missed you.”
“You’ve missed putting me down, yelling at me, or getting frustrated when I don’t do exactly what you tell me to do?”
“None of those.” She shakes her head. “I miss feeling like I have a daughter who will actually pick up my phone calls. A daughter who would actually be there for me when I needed her to be.”
“Yeah...I can tell you right now, that we haven’t had that relationship since eighth grade. You’re just now noticing this?”
She walks over to me with tears in her eyes and clasps both of my hands. “Mia, you’re beyond talented and I’m sorry I spent most of your life preventing you from pursuing your dreams. I went up to our attic last week and flipped through a ton of the pictures you’d hidden there and left behind. And all I could do was cry.”