Page 4 of Pink Ink

I chuckle and readjust the strap biting into my shoulder. My back feels like it’s going to break from the weight of the equipment.

Maybe I should have agreed to Kimi’s offer to call us an Uber. But I’ve said yes far too many times in the past year I’ve been here. This city isn’t exactly the best place to live with limited funds.

Our moms went to high school together back home in Indonesia, and drifted apart when Mom moved to the States before I was born. They didn’t reconnect until Mom got diagnosed with cancer two years ago, shortly after Dad died.

By then, they both had very different lifestyles. My mom was single and worked every day, while Kimi’s mom married her boss and didn’t have to lift a finger ever again. Kimi got to grow up as a trust-fund baby with an endless bank account, zero responsibility, and living parents.

My inheritance pays rent, the scholarship covers most of my tuition, and I’m hired as a videographer often enough to cover the bare minimum of my expenses. The money from my dad might have been sizable to some, but if I wanted to make it last, I shouldn’t have moved to one of the most expensive cities in the world.

“I just had the most depressing realization.” Kimi’s jet-black braid slaps her cheek as she whips her head toward me. “I have class in nine hours. Maybe I can skip it.”

Oh. Good. It’s just aherproblem. Actually…

“Shit. I have a quiz tomorrow morning.”

She curses. “I have a test tomorrow—which reminds me, I’m gonna need to pass on going to that exhibition. Mom is forcing me to meet with her and her friend who coincidentally has a son our age.”

Shrugging, I say, “It’s no big deal.”

It’s a bit of a big deal, but it’s my issue to bear. I just need to get over myself, because I shouldn’t need someone to hold my hand to do the things I used to do with Mom.

I’d have more friends and a support system or whatever if I hadn’t moved across the country and transferred to Cresswell University, an Ivy League school, in the final year of my degree, after Mom died last year. But it was my only choice. I need to know more about my father’s life before he died. Why he was never around. How my mom could love a man who only ever kept us at arm’s length.

Am I any closer to figuring out why I only saw him once a year? No.

Has moving here felt like a waste of time and money? Partially.

After months of researching, I still have no idea what his life consisted of beyond the usualMy work keeps me very busy, Reyna. Just listen to your mother and do as she says.

Really sage advice, Dad. Thanks. Appreciate it. So glad we had our annual bonding sessions before you carked it.

My phone buzzes, and I play a game of Twister to fish it out of my inside pocket. Lawrence’s name flashes across the screen, and the corners of my lips tip up at the message.

LAWRENCE:

I’ve got another case for you.

REYNA

There’s something to be said about human creativity. Give a person a piece of paper, and they might fold it, draw on it, or turn it into ash.

It’s one of the reasons I chose to go into the film industry. If three people are given a camera, not one will capture the same exact footage.

Mom loved art because of that too.

My footsteps hum through the otherwise deserted exhibition. It’s a hollow, foreboding sound coming from the creak of a decades-old wooden floor, combined with a high ceiling and glass roof that lets in light from the slate-gray sky.

Thunder cracks in the distance, promising a long, dreary day. Paired with the flicker of a single sconce, the weather drags the space back into the ages long before digital cameras were ever a reality. The official gallery of Cresswell University is the picture-perfect definition of melancholy, built for morbidly curious minds.

I’ve been studying here for a year now, and not once have I made the trek to the south end of the university to see any of the exhibits. I’ve been telling myself that if I’d befriended a fine-art major, then I would have gone. Unfortunately, I’ve found the wholebefriendingpart rather difficult.

I tap my fingers against my leg, trying and failing to focus on the art. I check my phone for the tenth time in ten minutes. Lawrence still hasn’t replied to my question about how far away he is. He’s not about to look at the art with me, but having him here will make me feel a little less alone, and like it’s not wrong of me to be here without Mom.

She took me to every art event and exhibition that was held in our city—sometimes, she even had her own work up on display. I’m sure she’s beside me in spirit, critiquing the ever-living shit out of the pieces hanging on the cobalt walls. She’s probably happy as can be right now, finally reunited with her soulmate. But I’m selfish. I wish she could be with me instead.

Taking a deep breath, I slip my phone into the front pocket of my pinafore and move away from the odd light display to return to the paintings. Neither Mom nor I had an eye for conceptual or contemporary art, but it didn’t stop us from pretending that we did.

Each work of art I pass has me imagining the ruthless things she’d whisper when she thought no one could hear her.