The Little House of Paints

Chapter 4

I wake to the beaming of bright sunlight shining in through my one and only bedroom window. I don't even know how it is possible since my bed isn't even in front of the window, but somehow it always seems to angle itself just so it can shine into my eyes. The light is a sure sign that I forgot to close the blinds last night when I got home last night. That makes sense though because I'm pretty sure that I passed out as soon as my head hit my pillow. Rolling over, I reach blindly, still half dazed from just waking up, for my nightstand that usually has my phone resting on it charging.

My suspicions about the night before are confirmed when my phone shows twenty five texts and eight missed calls from my dad. That's another thing I apparently forgot to do in my haste to go to sleep. Whenever Dad and I are not under the same roof, we always have to have a phone call before bed. I used to always think it was because he was lonely, but maybe it is because he is just worried about me.

I start to reply to one of his many text messages to reassure him that I am indeed alive and well, when my phone starts to buzz. Either he has really great timing or he has been staring at his phone waiting for my text bubbles to pop up. Honestly the second one wouldn't really come as a surprise.

"Good Morning, Dad." I say tentatively into the phone preparing for the verbal lashing I am more than likely about to receive.

"Kendahl," I hear the massive deep breath he releases upon hearing my voice, "are you okay? Why didn't you call me? Did something happen at the store? Or maybe at the house? Or maybe..." he starts to ramble on.

"Don't worry. I'm fine. All in one piece I promise. If anything was truly wrong here, you know you would have been one of my first calls." I reply, cutting him off before he worries himself anymore. "So how was your flight?" I ask hoping to distract him from his worries.

My earlier suspicion that he is under a lot of stress right now must be true because he immediately drops the issue. Usually, he would rant to me about how worried he has been, but instead he starts to tell me about what has happened to him since we parted ways at the airport as if nothing has happened to upset him.

As he starts to tell me every detail of his flight and how this new brass metal he wants to use for ferrules, aka those little metal bits holding the brush bristles to the handle, better be all it was promised to be because he flew all this way and that is expensive, etc. I make my way to my closet. If I am going to have to listen to my dad rant about his latest obsession with brass, I might as well be productive. Picking out an outfit isn't very difficult due to the fact that I wear the same thing everyday. A good old pair of baggy jeans that over the years have gotten holes in the knees from wear and a ratting old tee shirt of a band I have never even seen, which probably disbanded before I was even born.

In between the 'okays' and 'reallys' I'm supplying my dad while he continues to rant, I put on my clothes and throw my hair up into its usual messy bun. Now that I think of it maybe he has to have these nightly conversations just to rant about everything and anything that he wants.

"So, why didn't you answer my phone call last night?" He suddenly asks. Well it might not have been so sudden if I was not only half listening to what he was saying.

"Oh, well after I came home from my studio, I just passed out. All the painting really took it out of me, I don't know. It won't happen again." I promise sincerely.

"A piece for school, I'm assuming?"

And just like that everything goes back to normal. I continue getting ready for the day, walking to the bathroom while talking to my dad. I pay slightly less attention to him as I work on putting mascara on my eyelashes. Though I tend to not wear much makeup, putting on a little mascara always seems to bring out my eyes more and just tends to make me be more confident. I used to shy away from drawing any more attention to my eyes than they usually attracted due to a condition called heterochromia. It came as a huge shock to my parent's when they saw my eyes and realized that one of my stormy blue eyes was marred with a chocolate half. An almost perfect combination of both my mom and dad.

Though it is kind of hard to see the different colors sometimes in the dark, the difference is usually very prominent during the day time. People used to ask about it and point it out when I was younger, which always made me feel insecure about it. But as I've gotten older I've learned to appreciate them.

After putting the cap back on the mascara, I add a little bit of blush to my cheeks to make myself look more alive. The half chocolate eye makes me interesting, the constantly pale skin on the other hand makes me look ill.

An hour or so later, my dad finally says that he has to go meet with the seller of his prized brass and he's got to go. After making me promise once more that I will not forget about our phone call tonight, we exchange our 'I love yous' and 'goodbyes' before finally hanging up.

For breakfast, I grab a quick granola bar since I have to leave in a couple of minutes if I want to get to the store in time to open it up by nine. The drive is relatively short, but I want to give myself thirty extra minutes to get there. As I stand at our kitchen's little breakfast bar I see that my dad wasn't the only one that texted me last night.

Miller had texted to make sure that he still had my number correctly in his phone, to see if I got home safely, and to see what time I would like to meet up to have dinner. I quickly shoot him three texts back answering each of the questions individually. Starting with 'Yes you still have my number', then 'I got home fine last night', followed finally by, 'I don't know, maybe seven-ish?'

Checking the time, I see that it is already eight, so I need to head out. After gathering my stuff up and grabbing a coat, I walk over to my 1974 Bronco and start the drive back into town.