“Great job today,” she said finally. “Let’s clean up, and I’ll see you next week.”
The students immediately went about their task without complaint. After she’d said goodbye to each of them, I drove us back to my place.
“Have you been volunteering there long?” I asked.
“About a year or so. I love seeing the way their little faces light up when they’re painting.”
I nodded. “You’re really good with them, and they adore you. Have you considered a job in art education?”
She seemed to hesitate before answering. “I have, but I’m still figuring out what I want to do after I graduate.”
“From what I’ve seen of your work, you’re talented.” I didn’t issue compliments easily, and I meant every word I said.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?”
“Yes. My mom’s a professional photographer, so she encouraged me. My brother’s always been very supportive too.”
“Is he an artist as well?” she asked when I pulled onto my street.
“Talent manager. He’s actually my manager as well.”
“Wow. That’s awesome. I think I’d kill my siblings if I worked with them.”
I chuckled. “How many do you have?”
“Two, both older than me, both withrespectable, distinguished careers.” She affected a snobbish tone.
I sensed it was a sticking point for her, and I wondered if that was because it was how she felt or how her family made her feel. Either way, I didn’t like it. Being an artist was more difficult than traditional careers that provided stability, performance metrics, monotony.
I pulled into my drive and put the car in park before leaning over, wanting to be closer to her. “Sounds boring if you ask me. And you are the opposite of boring.”
She smiled, and I felt oddly proud of the fact that I’d put the smile on her lips. She was always doing things to cheer me up, to encourage me, so it was nice to be able to return the favor.
“Do you want to come in?” I asked as we climbed out of the car.
“I—” She glanced toward the street as if looking for escape. “Does that mean you changed your mind about pulling out of the exhibition?”
“It does.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Well, more accurately, you changed my mind.”
She tilted her head to the side, a smile teasing at her lips. “I guess my field trip wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.”
“Come on,” I said, turning for the door so she couldn’t see my answering grin. “Let’s get to work.”
“Right.” Her tone was more serious. “Of course. Work.”
“Are you still nervous?” I asked after disarming the security system. “Because it’s okay. I’m nervous too.”
I’m nervous that you turn my world upside down.
I’m nervous that you challenge everything I thought I knew about art, about myself.
I’m nervous that I’m falling for you.
I hadn’t realized what had been missing from my life until Kate. It was crazy; I hadn’t known her long, but there was a connection. She just got me.
She nodded but said nothing more, setting down her tote bag and walking over to the easel where our piece was displayed. Well, what remained of our piece. In a rage, I’d covered much of it with angry slashes of black paint. Something I now regretted.
“What happened?” she asked, touching the canvas lightly with her fingertips as if it were wounded skin.
