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“No, it’s fine. I’ll do it.” So, under the laser beams of his encouragement, I rip open the envelope and pull out the crisp single piece of paper. Special paper. The kind people make themselves, with colorful threads baked in. “‘Dear Ms. Fox,” I begin, my heart sinking. My eyes are faster than the words I’m reading. But I keep reading anyway. “Thank you for your recent submission. Unfortunately, we have not selected your work to exhibit at this time but please feel free to send more of your work in the future. Thank you again for your interest.’”
Damn it. Why the hell did I agree to open the letter in front of Elias O’Shea, of all people? It only makes the humiliation that much worse. He’s the most successful person at this school. And I’m…not.
Elias notices my disappointment. “Hey. You know what?”
“What.” My voice sounds flat. I’m disheartened, of course, but not surprised. How did I ever think I’d be as good as my mother?
“I don’t nail every pass,” he says. “Not even close. But I keep trying. I keep practicing all day every day, memorizing the formations, working like hell until it becomes so instinctual I barely even have to think. And then I do it again until I land another one. Not just land it but feel the flow of it, like a dance almost. When I nail one, I know I’ve nailed it before it even leaves my fingers. But none of them are easy. Every single one of them takes blood, sweat and tears to get right.”
His little speech almost helps. “I guess so.”
“You’re just getting started. It’s your very first week of school. You can’t expect things to happen overnight.”
“I’ve been painting for a long time,” I point out.
“And I’ve been playing football for a long time. But I still miss. All the time. The trick is to keep going. Feel your own power, stay true to it. Only you can do what you do. Keep working and keep getting better. That’s the only way you’ll ever hit the mark.” Then, like he’s reading my mind. “Besides, who cares if you don’t hit the same targets your mother hit. That’s not something you should try to do. You’ll hit different targets. Better targets. Targets that are meant for you to hit, not her.”
It’s true. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m always right.” That smile—holy hell he’s gorgeous.
“Of course.” I find myself smiling back. “You’re the quarterback.”
“I have to be right. Let me see a picture of one of your paintings.”
“No…I mean, I’m still finding my style.”
“Show me your favorite painting that you’ve ever done.”
Damn him. But what the hell. He already knows about my crash and burn at the Sea Glass. Showing him a painting at this point can hardly hurt.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and pull up a photo. He holds out his hand and I give him my phone. He zooms in on the painting.
“That’s one of my favorites,” I tell him. “It’s a self-portrait but it also turned out to look almost exactly like my mother. I didn’t even mean to do that.” I immediately regret showing him. “I haven’t shown my work to many people before. Most of it is still stacked in my room in the attic of our house. Not even my sister or my dad has seen this one.”
“So I’m the very first person to see it besides you.”
“Yeah.”
Elias is quiet for a few seconds as he studies the painting more closely. It’s the strangest thing but I feel like he’s absorbing some of my sadness—which is mostly gone now but it still has the power to creep up on me and cast its dark shadow over everything—just with his patience and his empathy. Maybe because he gets it, I don’t know. But the invisible current between us is connective. “It’s the best painting I’ve ever seen.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I mean it.” His glance slides to my face, like he’s genuinely impressed, before returning to the photo. “You’re insanely talented. This is really, really good, Zara.”
“Thanks.” It’s a nice thing to say.
He takes his time with it. “You and your mother must have looked a lot alike.”
“Yeah. We both have the same color hair and eyes. Or we did. Anyway, I like how the painting seems to capture some of both our personalities. It was the first time I ever felt like I could do that with my art.”
“Can you send this to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can I text myself a screenshot?”
“No.” I laugh a little, reaching for my phone, but he protects it with his strong-looking hands. “Why?”
