Even as I pray to a god I no longer believe in.
I know it’s time.
“I love you, Neacakes. Find love. Go to New Orleans.”
JulianTwenty-one years old
I always saw my father as a hero. He was strong, responsible, and everything I wanted to be when I grew up. For a long time, I thought I would be like him, focused on my art, on making creative pieces that people would buy and hang in their homes.
But now that I see the man I looked up to stumbling into the house at almost two in the morning, I feel as if I’m living with a stranger. Yes, my dad had been rather eccentric when I was growing up, but he never did anything this irresponsible.
When he looks at me, I notice how his eyes have lost their soul, their fire. He doesn’t look like the man I grew up with; instead, he’s nothing more than a stranger to me.
“Don’t . . . you . . . ever . . . trust . . .” His slurred words are a knife to the heart, each one a stabbing pain right in my chest. For years, he would say things, but they were never filled with such venom that I no longer recognized his tone.
He glares at me. I don’t know who he is, but he’s nothing to me. I turn on my heel and walk away, needing my space. If I’m alone, locked in my studio, then I can focus. Because right now, if I’m near him, we’ll only end up having a screaming match.
Over the years, I’ve come to recognize his destructive behavior. I’ve learned how to stop myself from fighting with him. It comes from a place of love. Seeing my father fall down a rabbit hole has made me angry because all I’ve ever wanted was for him to be here with me. The fear of losing yet another parent has a grip on me, and I don’t know how to tell him without seeing him get angry.
I know I’m meant to support him, show him how much I love and care for him, but I can’t when I’m watching him destroy himself. I can’t force him to go into rehab, he needs to decide for himself, which only infuriates me because I want so much to see the father that was around before his heartbreak.
The loud knocks on the door turn to banging, and the deep, drunken slur of my father is a familiar sound as he tries to coax me out. When I don’t open the door, he curses at me, calling me every name in the book. And all the while he does this, my hand moves with the paintbrush, creating violent strokes of black on the pristine white canvas.
I try my best to ignore him. I close my eyes and breathe. But there’s nothing that can take away the vileness of this house, of this situation. It’s been going on for too long, and nobody can help him now. He has to admit that he has a problem.
When I finally open my eyes moments later, I can breathe a sigh of relief because the banging has stopped, and the shouting has ceased.
Chapter 1
Nea
The sun shines brightly from a clear blue sky this morning as I make my way to the small coffee shop that sells the most robust espresso I’ve ever tasted. Thick scents of pastries and fresh brew hang in the air as I rush down the narrow, cobbled street.
I’m not late, but if I don’t make it to the shop on time, I’ll be in a queue for the next twenty minutes, which will ensure I’m in trouble with my boss. The art gallery where I’ve been doing my internship is a dream job, but the man who runs it is strict about tardiness. And I won’t hear the end of it for at least two days. This is my last week in the art-inspired metropolis, and I don’t want to spend it listening to him nagging me about being young and frivolous.
My love for art has brought me to the magnificent city of Rome. Since I was young, I’ve always wanted to spend time in the cities where the most famous of painters roamed the streets, and here I am. I’ve taken to the Italian way of life easily, enjoying food, wine, and the splendor life has to offer.
But not all life is perfect, and the moment I go home, the reality that my internship has come to an end will set in. Unless I can find something that will give me a reason to want to go home. Perhaps a job in another city far from where I grew up.
“Buongiorno.” I smile at the girl behind the counter. She’s about my age, early twenties, and has a happy grin on her face when she recognizes me. This is the one and only place I venture every morning before work.
“Come stai?”
“I’m well, grazie,” I tell her. I motion with my fingers for two coffees, and she nods, working the machine like a professional as she grinds the beans. The scent making every nerve in my body spark to life. It’s the only addiction I have. My morning just wouldn’t be right without good coffee.
Once I have the Styrofoam cups, I head farther down the long, narrow street. The gallery is not open yet, so when I reach the door, I have to unlock it before making my way into the air-conditioned space.
“Ah, here she is, finally,” Flavio, my boss, says in a resounding flurry of thick Italian-accented words. He’s seated at the welcome desk working on his laptop when I reach him. I set his coffee down in front of him. He takes a quick glance at it, nods, then taps a few more times on the keyboard before he stops and looks at me.
“Buongiorno,” I greet. “I’m not late.
