Ibrahim's office was all clean lines and dark wood, reflecting the man himself. He sat behind his desk reviewing something on his computer and looked up when I knocked on the open door.
“Dusty.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Come in. What can I do for you?”
I sat, the weight of what I needed to say pressing against my chest. “I need to give my notice. I'm leaving at the end of the season after all. I can stay through until the first of January if you need.”
“No, The Ranch will be closed for the two-week holiday break per usual. The season will end on December 20th.” His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. He closed his laptop, giving me his full attention. “When we spoke after Jake's betrayal, you accepted the wellness center position. You seemed committed to rebuilding here.”
“I was. I thought that was the right path.” I met his eyes. “But I realized something today. I was using the gallery dream as a shield all along. If I failed at opening a gallery for other artists, it wouldn't really be about me or my art. But putting my own work out there? That's terrifying.”
“Explain.”
“A client looked at my sketches today. Personal work. He said I should sell it, that people would pay for it.” The words came easier now. “And I realized I've been hiding. First behind the idea of helping other artists, then behind the idea of building your wellness center. Both were ways to avoid the scary part, putting my own voice out there and risking rejection.”
Ibrahim nodded slowly. “And you've decided to stop hiding.”
“I have to try. Even if I fail. Even if it takes me years to save up enough again.” I paused. “I can't do it while I'm here, though. The Ranch requires full commitment, and my mind is already elsewhere.”
“You have not been fully present for some time,” he said. It wasn't an accusation, just an observation. “Even before Jake's betrayal, your attention was divided. The cabin with Mr. Morales clarified that further.”
He wasn't wrong. My mind had been elsewhere for weeks… maybe longer than that.
“I know,” I said quietly.
Ibrahim stood, walked around his desk, and leaned against it, a rare moment of casual posture from a man who was always precisely composed.
“I am disappointed to lose you,” he said. “But I respect the choice. To master anything, you must commit fully. You cannot serve two callings.” He crossed his arms. “Where will you go?”
“I don't know yet. Maybe back home in West Texas, rent a small place. Maybe somewhere else. I just need to make art and see if anyone wants to buy it.”
“And if they don't?”
“Then at least I'll know I tried.”
Ibrahim studied me and I thought I saw something like approval in his expression. Then he extended his hand. “Good luck, Dusty. I hope you find what you are looking for.”
I shook his hand, feeling the finality of it. Seven years, ending with a handshake and mutual respect.
It felt right.
That night I sat in my studio after the last classes ended, portfolio open in front of me. The sketches of Cord stared back at me—honest and vulnerable and the best work I'd ever done.
I couldn't sell these. They were too personal, too much of what we'd shared. But I could create more work like this. Art that came from something real, that didn't hide behind technical skill or safe subjects.
I pulled out my phone and opened a new note: “Next Steps.”
This time, words came:
Give notice to Ibrahim (done)
Research studio rentals in Marfa
