When Stars Collide

Chapter 9 — Dinner with Ghosts

The next day, Emma woke up to the sun slanting through her grimy studio window. Her back ached from sleeping half-curled on the paint-spattered couch. Her phone buzzed again — a calendar reminder: Dinner with Mom & Dad. 7 PM. Don’t be late.

For a second, she wanted to fling the phone into the half-finished canvas leaning against her easel. She wanted to bury it in gesso and color and forget it had ever rung. But instead, she showered, scrubbing dried paint from her arms, her neck, the soft place behind her ear where Noah’s breath had lingered.

She put on the blue dress Daniel liked. The one that made her look “classic,” like a girl on an engagement announcement card. She hated it. She wore it anyway. For now.

They met at the restaurant her parents always chose — a place with starched napkins and glass chandeliers, where the clink of forks was more important than the taste of the food. Daniel was already there when she arrived, all pressed shirt and polite smile, the kind of man people trusted with mortgages and weekend brunch reservations.

“Hi, Em.” He kissed her cheek. It landed nowhere near her skin.

Her parents were all approval — her mother’s soft, forced laugh; her father’s nod of satisfaction when Emma sat straight, spoke softly, made herself small enough to fit the mold they’d picked for her long before she was born.

Daniel talked about the new condo near the harbor. Her mother asked about floral arrangements and cake tastings. Her father leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, nodding at every decision like a general blessing his troops.

Emma smiled when she was supposed to. She nodded at the right moments. She sipped her wine but didn’t taste it. Her mind drifted to the studio — to the smell of turpentine and oil paint, to the rough warmth of Noah’s thumb brushing paint from her jaw.

Halfway through the main course, Daniel’s hand landed over hers on the table. It should have felt steady. It felt like a weight pressing her into the linen tablecloth.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said softly. The same soft that meant Careful now.

“Just tired.” She forced a smile.

Her mother perked up. “Well, no wonder — you’ve been working too hard, sweetheart. Once you’re married, you’ll have time to focus on the right things.”

The right things. A gallery curated by someone else. A marriage curated by someone else. A version of herself so airbrushed it had no fingerprints left.

Emma’s throat tightened. She felt it then — a pulse at her wrist, a voice deep under her ribs: You can get up now. You don’t have to finish this performance.

She pushed her chair back. The legs scraped the polished floor, too loud. Her mother startled. Her father frowned. Daniel’s grip tightened around her wrist.

“Em? Where are you going?” he murmured, too low for the table but sharp enough to cut her where only he could.

“Home,” she said. Her voice shook but didn’t break. “I have to paint.”

She pulled her hand free. She didn’t look at her mother’s gasp, her father’s pinched brow. She didn’t look at Daniel’s mouth twisting into a tight, familiar line — the one that used to scare her into staying.

She walked out — through the hush of crystal chandeliers and linen napkins and whispered judgment. Out into the night where the city smelled like wet asphalt and freedom.

She didn’t check her phone. She didn’t call Noah. She didn’t need to.

She walked back to her studio alone — her shoes blistering her heels, her pulse a drumbeat louder than the traffic. She unlocked the door, flicked on the light, stared at the riot of unfinished canvases waiting for her like open arms.

Emma exhaled.

Then she picked up a brush and didn’t stop until the sun came up.