Second Chances (A Chance to Fall)

Chapter 1: Second Chances

The weight of the paint brush felt satisfying in my hands as I balanced it in the crook of my forefinger and thumb. Orange gliding across the canvas created the perfect moment of comfort and warmth in front of my eyes. My hand lowered and dabbed the paint brush into more paint. I brought it back up to the canvas to tap in some details. The sound of the paintbrush scratching the canvas was music to my ears. Staring back at me was a plump round pumpkin. The scene of the pumpkin field before me looked so real, I could almost smell its fall fragrance.

I gave a sigh. Dad would've loved this painting.

Setting my paintbrush into the water, I stood from my stool and untied the painting apron from my waist. As I placed the apron on my stool, the sound of someone pressing a code into my door keypad caught my attention.

The door opened, and my mom's smiling face slid into view a moment later.

"Guess who found apple cider on the shelf today?!" she exclaimed.

"Mom," I groaned. "Why don't you knock?"

"Well, you gave me the code, so why would I do that?"

Rubbing my forehead, I took a deep breath in before releasing slowly. "Yeah, maybe I shouldn't have done that. You don't know how to use an inside voice either."

My mom's lips turned down into a pout. "Shelly, I feel like I'm being scolded. Besides, I like using your keypad. It's so high-tech."

I loved the keypad too. My eyes briefly scanned the small studio apartment with its side-by-side refrigerator, glass top stove, and real granite countertops. It took me a long time to get here, to a place where I felt safe and could finally say I made it. Something I could brag about at my 10 year high school reunion along with my cool job as an Art consultant. My art space was also my bedroom, and it was also my dining area. Not 10 feet away was my island and kitchen. I couldn't help that it felt lonely sometimes. Like it was missing something or someone.

"Anyway, what brings you here?"

"Can't I just stop by to check in on my daughter?" my mom inquired, playing dumb. I saw right through her, and she knew it by the dubious look I cast in her direction. Without a beat, she sighed. "I just know this time of year is tough for you."

She then finally placed her attention on the painting I had been giving my heart and soul to just moments before. Her breath faltered, and she stood there stunned.

"It's absolutely breathtaking. I don't understand why you help sell other's art, but won't sell your own."

"They're all personal, mom. Way too personal to sell to strangers that will just hang it over their couch."

"I think you're just scared that someone will love it."

"Well, this one is definitely not for sale."

"Yeah, you say that about all of them."

She wasn't wrong, but we had this argument every couple of weeks. Selling my own art didn't get me this apartment. Selling other's art did. People who were...just more talented than me. Or sometimes just more marketable than me.

"Anyway, are you ready to go to the pumpkin patch with me?"

I blinked roughly. "Ummm..."

"Come on. You promised!"

I shook my head. "Just go without me."

Mom rolled her eyes, but didn't argue. She was used to this answer by now. Every year since dad died, I said no. It was our thing. My dad and I spent hours picking the perfect pumpkins, giving life to each one of them by painting things on them. Now when I painted, my art looked more like Edward Hopper's than Claude Monet's, basking in a type of loneliness and solemnity that only people who had experienced loss would understand. It was true, artists profited off of their pain, but I didn't want to be one of them.