Falling For The Biker - Chapter 62: Chapter 62

Sierra’s POV
Arthur left soon after. I was able to change the topic even though both topic hurts, one certainly hurt more than the other. I had let Vance make me hate the sight of my paintings. Or maybe hate was a big word.
I could not stand seeing them. It always reminded me of what I left behind. At the time, I held the peaceful family as my consolation for my fallen dream, but now I had nothing. The fear of it still deeply rooted in my mind.
Mr. Brian always praised my work. He said I could replace him, possibly work side by side with him, but I did not want to. I wanted to start something for myself. Be independent, but I fell in love and left it all behind.
I thought I could live without it but every day, I have been filled with regret, yet I could never pick up a brush again. Despite my family and my mentor’s praising, Vance’s criticisms were enough to make me doubt everything.
I took out my phone and made a little search. Truly, my painting was in Mr. Brian’s gallery. There has been nothing but commendations from people, but it was not enough. That was a painting I did at my peak.
I doubted the rest after that would get that same recognition. With a sigh, I got off the couch and headed to the basement. Once again, I opened the suitcase, staring at the paintings that were once dear to me.
“Sierra, you home?” Jackson’s voice came from upstairs.
“Yes. In the basement,” I responded, heaving a sigh.
I should not let this deter me. I could think of something else, but not right now. We were on a holiday. All I needed to focus on was how to spend it with my family. I would get back to what to do with my life once it was over.
Maybe then I would not be caught up in all this. After all, there were better things out there, not just painting. I just needed to look deep within myself. “Mommy,” Elvis rushed over to me, hugging my legs.
“Do you want to paint, Mommy?” Elvis asked, his eyes lighting up.
He looked so much like Vance, but has my eyes and hair. A few times I have been scared of losing him, but out of everything that went wrong, I was glad I had this bundle of joy with me.
I bent over, pressing a kiss on his forehead. “I haven’t painted in a long time. I’m just taking a look at my previous works,” I told him.
“Can I see, Mommy?” he asked, expectant.
I opened my mouth, reluctant to let him. He has only seen a few pieces, and they were all by mistake when he kept wandering. However, before I could let him, he picked up one of my sunset paintings.
The next was the last painting I drew. I tried to stop him but drew a sigh. “Mommy, is this me?” he pointed at his two-year-old self.
I hummed, giving him a soft smile. I tried my best to hide how uncomfortable I was. That picture held too much of my emotions. “It’s really nice, Mommy,” Elvis said, stared at it for a minute and ran out.
“Elvis!” I yelled, but he only giggled as he kept going.
“Grandma! Grandpa!” Elvis called out. “Look at mommy’s painting,” he said, sliding in between my parents.
Jackson came down the stairs, looking around in curiosity. “Mommy drew me,” Elvis said, excited.
“You’re painting again?” Jackson asked.
“No,” I hastily responded.
Dad took the paper from Elvis, checking out the painting. He nodded. “It actually looks good. I knew you still had it in you,” he said.
“I thought you stopped painting,” Mum said.
“I did. It’s an old painting. It’s been over five years since I did that,” I pointed at little Elvis. “See, Elvis was only two then,”
Mum and Dad hummed. “But a part is missing,” Mum pointed out.
I could not say a thing. Talking about that painting hurts. Jackson took a seat, then sighed. He seemed to have noticed my discomfort and gave a silent signal to Mum. She grabbed the painting from Dad, folded it up, and stood up.
“Well, it is nice seeing your painting again,” she handed it over, tapping my hand softly. “I need to make dinner,”
“I’ll help you, grandma,” Elvis said, jumping up from his seat.
“I’ll-”
Mum tapped my hand again with a small smile, stopping me from joining her. “Come Elvis,” she said, leaving for the kitchen.
I stared down at the paper in my hand before turning around, heading back to the basement. While I stuffed every painting back in, I tried to hold in my tears. “You’re really going to let him win, huh?”
I snapped my head to the door. Jackson leaned on the door with his arms across his chest. I sniffled, rising. “What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice croaked.
“We can all make a wild guess that Vance made you stop painting, but,” he pushed himself off the door, walking over to me. “I can’t seem to understand why you let him. The sister I know, the Sierra I know, wasn’t very strong, but at the very least, she was able to know what she wanted.”
“And maybe what I want is to not paint,” I said, defensive as I zipped up the suitcase.
Jackson smiled. “Right. You suddenly lost your passion after marrying that douchebag,” he said.
“I didn’t lose it. I wasn’t good at it.”
“He really made you believe that, Sierra. Everyone tells you it’s awesome, and some dick tells you otherwise and you believe him.”
I stayed silent, pinching my dress. Jackson sighed. “You know what? Do whatever you want,” he said, walking away.
My lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. Was there anything to say? I stared down at the box by my feet and sighed.
It’s in the past, and I’ll leave it there.