Heartbreaker [h.s.]

Chapter Twenty One

Hi lovelies! So sorry for the delays in posting!! Life's been a little hectic for iz and myself, but thankful we have yet another chapter ready for you!

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When I feel like I don't belong in my own skin, I look for a distraction. When drinking and sex don't settle me, I always find myself wandering aimlessly through an art exhibit. We don't usually have a lot of down time, but today's later sound check granted me the perfect opportunity to catch a museum tour. I'd only been here 10 minutes when I gravitated to a small room that had very few people in it. The sign hanging on the wall above the threshold read in large block letters:

Across The Nation
a focus on the American experience through the works of Georgia O'Keefe, Alma Thomas, and Edgar Degas

I've always had a soft spot for art. It's a form of creativity I always regretted not trying. Music came naturally to me and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but there's something about getting lost in a painting that grounds me. Not many things can do that. Flashes of childhood memories play in my head like a choppy movie with the edges blurred. The sound of buzzing conversations dissipates around me as I allow my mind to wander to fonder times.

I can see my grandparents enjoying their Saturday morning coffee together while I scarfed down Cheerios— head craning to the television to not miss my morning cartoons.

I can almost smell the abundance of pies, cookies, and brownies that we baked together, something later I figured out was a way to distract me. When I was kept busy, I wouldn't ask about mum not coming around.

Then there were the quieter, softer memories of my grandmother showing off her collection of art prints. She'd always been so proud of them— she especially was proud of her O'keeffe prints. My grandmother became animated when sharing her love of O'keeffe with anyone who'd listen.

As a child, I found art fascinating.

Around 13, I pretended not to care anymore.

When she passed the day after my 14th birthday, I'd realized I wasted the last year of her life leaning into the angsty teen attitude when I should have cherished it with the woman who was more of a mother than my own.

I'm glad I got off my lazy ass and stumbled in here. Far better than drinking at the beach before rehearsal— something everyone else is probably doing.

This is something I needed after running into my mum. Something that brought me both comfort and a twinge of sadness all wrapped up in one big messy ball of emotion. The nostalgia brings a smile to my face as I look over a piece done by O'Keefe, smiling faintly, the name resting quietly in my chest.

My grandmother had more prints of her hanging around their home than any other artist.

"Real art," she'd say, "wasn't born in the galleries of London. It emerged from bone white skulls and New Mexico dust." I know she was just being facetious. She respected all forms of art and artists. I think she just had a deep rooted hatred for my very British father who dropped us like hot potatoes. According to mum, he was a charming devil in disguise who took what he wanted when he wanted it. For a few short years, that'd been my much younger, naive, American mother.