Midnight Muse

“Yes, mom,” I sigh, rubbing my hands down my jeans again in a nervous motion. I stare at the streaks of charcoal embedded into the denim and smile. “I, um, don’t really know how to have this conversation,” I admit, and she must hear the slight quiver in my voice because she sounds alarmed when she responds.

“Quinn, are you alright? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine, mom. I just—” I sigh, moving over to my bed and falling onto it. The ceiling is drenched with afternoon sun and I count the stripes where my blinds are casting shadows between them. “For a long time now, I haven’t been feeling like I could be the artist everyone wants me to be.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line and I chew my lip, worrying about how she’s going to respond.

“Sweetie, what do you mean?”

I take a deep breath and admit everything to her. I admit that I’ve lost my way in the art world, lost my spark, and that I’ve been struggling to find it again for as long as I can remember.

“Quinn, I had no idea that you’ve been feeling this way,” she says, and I hear the concern thick in her tone. It makes my heart twinge with guilt.

“That’s the thing mom, you wouldn’t have known because I hid it for so long. I was afraid to disappoint everyone, especially you and dad, when you’ve both done so much for me and my art career.”

She makes a choked sound that I think is her trying to smother a sob. It makes my own tears spill and I wipe them from my cheeks, uncaring that the charcoal left on my hands is going to mix with them and leave me with dark streaks down my face.

“I wish you would’ve told us sooner,” she murmurs, and I hear her shuffling throughout the house, the opening of a door. Her voice echoes and I know she’s entered her bathroom, probably searching for a box of tissues. “We will support you however you need, Quinn. Even if it means following a different passion of yours.”

Those words hit me harder than I thought they would. Of course, I know that my parents would support my decision to give up art if I wanted to, but I also know that I’d always feel that dread-like cloud hanging over me like I’ve disappointed them when they’ve poured so much into helping with my art career.

I swallow thickly. “I know that,” I say because it’s the only thing I can.

“So,” mom says, clearing her throat. When she continues, she sounds stronger, more than ready to listen. “Is this the end for artist Quinn?”

The thought is like a twist of a hot knife to my gut. I love being an artist and have since I was a child and the thought of giving it up isn’t something I’ve ever actually considered. I always had hopes that my creativity would come back, that my love for art would always be here. It has, finally rearing its head again, and while it may not be the exact same feelings I remember from when I was younger, I’m more than ready to accept the newness of the creativity sparking in my veins and rolling with it.

“Not a chance,” I answer her, unable to keep my grin tucked between my teeth. But there’s something else tugging at my mind; something else I want to share with her.

“Your head was always stuck in that drawing pad of yours,” mom chuckles wetly and my nostrils prickle with emotion. It’s never easy hearing her upset. “You hardly ever wanted to play with your brother. Sam had to drag you away from your drawings to get your attention, and it only worked when he offered you a different craft or a bowl of ice cream.”

She’s right. When I was younger, I didn’t care about anything besides art. Drawing, coloring, painting, I loved all of it. I remember always begging my mom to buy me something from the craft aisle, even though most of the things I picked out screamed that a mess was to be made while playing with them, she always encouraged and supported my desire to explore the arts.

We laugh together as we reminisce and my shoulders ease. “I remember that. Actually, I think he still owes me a bowl or two.”

“I’ll be sure to remind him the next time I talk to him,” mom says. “Maybe over winter break the four of us can go get some together.”

“I’d like that,” I answer softly, wiping a tear from my cheek. My phone buzzes in my hand and I pull it away from my ear to check the screen. A text notification from Knox is sliding away, the name Douchewaffle making me smile. “Hey mom?”

“Yes?”

“You know that neighbor I’ve been complaining about this semester? The one who stayed up really late and was always playing loud music?” I chew on my lip, unsure of why I’m suddenly nervous to tell my mom that I’m dating the man I swore to hate for the next two years of my time at Vulcan University.

“Yes…” She answers, somewhat uneasily. “What about him?”

“Well, his name is Knox, and he’s my boyfriend now,” I breathe, squeezing my eyes shut tight as I await her response.

It’s silent on the other end of the line for so long that I pull my phone away to make sure our call hasn’t disconnected.

And then my mom bursts into laughter.

“Oh, of course he is, Quinnie.”

“Hey,” I grouse, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Quinn.” Mom’s voice takes on a scolding note that makes me feel like I’m ten again and arguing with her about bringing my markers to the grocery store. “I’ve never seen you move so fast as to when you were shoving your father into your apartment after they showed up on your floor. You were blushing bright red after you slammed that door in their faces. I’m pretty sure you’re the only one in the room who didn’t know you were head over heels for that boy back then. Leah and I talked about it almost the entire way home.”

“Oh my God,” I slap a palm to my forehead, utterly mortified.