MY MUSE

I look inside my neatly arranged wardrobe, thanks to Jan. If it were up to me, it would be completely disorganized. I look longingly at my jeans, sweatpants, T-shirts, and shorts, wanting to crawl back into bed. But I know how important dress codes are to Jamie, and she insisted on a dress. Rows of dresses hang in front of me, and on the other side are my shoes: heels, flats, and sneakers. I only wear heels when I attend gallery openings or events with my mom. Usually, they stay in the closet, gathering dust. They make me focus on my imperfections—my chunky thighs and stretch marks. I put on my lovely white summer dress, which has light butterfly beading that shimmers subtly in the light. I also wear a simple golden necklace with a blue flower at the front, simple brown sandals, and a pink tote bag with a Mickey Mouse drawing. It feels out of place—a bright pop of color in a world where you try to blend into the background. Like me, my hair is braided in knotless braids, neatly arranged but somehow still messy. "Are you almost ready, Nina? Your driver is here!" Jan shouts from outside the closet. "Almost done," I answer. I take a few deep breaths and open the door. Just as I'm stepping out, Jan hands me a small white bottle of pills—my anxiety medication. I hate I need them, but I tuck them into my bag. The few times I’ve been to parties or places with a lot of people, my anxiety got bad. The last time I was at a party, I locked myself in the bathroom, unable to breathe, sweating, and shaking. I rocked myself back and forth, trying to calm down. People kept banging on the door; only Jamie was gentle with me. She came in, covered my face with her coat, helped me stand, and left with me. Even though it was her party, all she said was, "No party is more important than you, babe." It was her birthday party, but instead, we spent the evening watching movies and eating snacks in my room. I loved her, and she became my favorite person. I walk down the stairs, looking at the paintings on the wall. One depicts a woman sitting near a beach under a cove, crying, with her beautiful, silky hair covering her face. The emptiness and loneliness in the painting make me feel less alone. The second one is of the ocean in a storm, a lightning bolt striking the water. The third is an abstract painting that brings back many memories of my brother, Mark. We painted it together before things got bad. He got sick and died, but let’s talk about that later. At the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Mwangi, the butler, opens the heavy mahogany door. He’s in his fifties, tall, with deep brown skin, a neatly trimmed grey beard, and eyes that hold too many secrets. "Thank you," I say, forcing a small smile. He nods silently. I never wanted to hire him; the idea of someone older than my father opening doors for me feels uncomfortable. But Mom insisted—it’s more elegant, she said, a touch of sophistication that makes her feel better about being so far away. I get in my car with Jan, she sits in the front and gives the address to the driver. I stare out the window. Our neighborhood is beautiful—gorgeous trees, people walking their cute little dogs, kids riding their bikes, and a fountain in the middle of the estate. The sky is breathtaking. I wish I were inspired to paint things like this—beautiful, simple things like I did before I turned ten. Sometimes, I wish I could go back—to when Dad’s clinic was just a small building on the corner, and Mom’s firm was a fifteen-minute drive away. Back when we had breakfast together. But those days died with Mark, leaving behind this echoing emptiness I can't seem to fill. We arrive at Jamie's home. She lives in her family home in Muthaiga. Her parents moved to Australia full-time, so she's always alone. The compound feels similar to my estate while we drive in, but the burst of color from the meticulously maintained garden softens it. Vibrant roses, bright lilies, and creeping ivy climb the walls. I shouldn't be surprised, considering her mom is from old money and spends her days focusing on their gardens. Her one rule was that we were never allowed to play in it. The driveway tiles are polished blue and shimmer in the sun. Vibrant roses and lilies overflow from the garden, arranged as though leading up to the mansion. The entrance is almost unreal—a glass floor stretches beneath my feet, revealing a serene pool below where goldfish drift lazily, their golden scales gleaming like tiny coins in the filtered light. I wonder how they feed them. "Nina!" Jamie shouts in excitement as she runs to me. Jamie is taller than me. She is elegantly attired in a brief black dress complemented by a lovely silver necklace and red heels. She has beautiful brown skin and long, black hair. With her left arm, she embraces me warmly while holding a bottle of champagne in her right hand. Jamie’s grin is infectious, her eyes sparkling as she pulls me inside. "For now, it’s just brunch with the girls," she says, squeezing my hand reassuringly. "There’ll be a party later, but you don’t have to stay. I promise." She holds my hand and walks me into the living room. It has more expensive furniture than my place. In many family portraits, she looks like her mom and her older sister, who lives in Paris. She is going to house her while she is in school. As we step into the garden, my pulse quickens. I hear the girls' laughter as we walk to the back gardens. I slow my pace, and the air suddenly feels heavy and suffocating. Jamie squeezes my hand, leaning in to whisper, "Just two hours. I’m right here, okay?" I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, but a gnawing dread takes root in my stomach. Something is bound to go wrong. It always does.