“Forget about the collectors, Ewan. Is that what you’ve been worrying about? You don’t work for them; you work foryou. They’ll be there salivating at your feet the moment you have a new piece to share. Until then, they can wait. Heck, the longer it takes, the more hyped up they’ll be about it, probably.” Daniel scoffs, and I picture him shaking his head at them and me on the other end of the phone. “Art collectors will exist no matter what; they’ll be there tomorrow or twenty years from now. Don’t let them rush you.”
“Maybe I should try commissioned pieces, or?—”
“Maybe you should stop trying to fix things and just relax,” he says, cutting me off. “Maybe you should give yourself a little grace and stop pushing so hard. Maybe you should take the vacation you’re meant to be on right now.”
Ah, and there it is. The other reason I’m anxious right now—the vacation I’m on that I wish wasn’t a vacation but my real life. I’m pretty sure everyone goes on a trip and wishes they could call that place home, at least for a little while. But it’s different for me, because this was the life I wanted as a kid, torched as an adult, and am now trying to rebuild.
“Don’t try to paint anything unless you want to,” Daniel continues. “And don’t do it for the purpose of selling. Do it because it’s fun and you love it and you have an idea, no matter how silly or stupid you believe it is. I know how you think.”
Grimacing, I scuff my heel back and forth on the sandy bank, dislodging smaller rocks and sending them skittering toward the sea. He knows exactly how many ideas I had for pieces that were never attempted because I’d convinced myself they were idiotic.
“I drew the lobster,” I remind him in a weak attempt at self-defense.
“Yes, you did. And then you gave it to someone who loves it. So you tell me what lesson is meant to be learned from that.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumble, scowling at a coastal bird flying by, who, admittedly, has done nothing to earn the ire.
“Tell me what’s actually wrong, kid,” Daniel requests, dropping his voice and adopting a little bit kinder of a tone.
“I want to stay.” The words come out barely above a whisper, but once they’re out, the effect is immediate. Those four simple words have been taking up so much space in my chest, expanding against my lungs until it was a struggle to breathe. I inhale a mouthful of salty coastal air, feeling as lightheaded as though Ireally was low on oxygen.
“Then stay,” Daniel replies, completely missing the point. “It’s not as though there was a set plan. You’re not booked for any shows, and you can work without the studio space for now. Stay as long as you like.”
“I want to stay forever.”
This time, the silence expands like a bubble, a physical thing pushing at the boundaries and waiting to see whether they’ll collapse.
“Okay,” he says eventually. I squint down at the rocks between my feet, trying to parse through his tone. Mad? Resigned? Wishing he worked for a different flighty artist?
“Okay?”
“Might take some doing, but we can make it work. You’ll be racking up a crap-ton of frequent-flyer miles going back and forth.” He hums a little bit the way he does when he’s thinking hard. “How’s the housing market up there? I’d say you could rent studio space, but since you’re prone to getting up in the middle of the night to paint, it might be best to keep everything at home?—”
“Daniel,” I interrupt, because while I appreciate the enthusiasm, I’m not sure listening to a stream of consciousness about all the problems that need to be solved before I can live here is going to help my anxiety.
“I’ll work on figuring things out,” he says swiftly. “Are you wanting to find a more permanent place sooner rather than later, or are you comfortable in that long-term rental? The Kelp Castle or whatever.”
“Kelpie Kottage,” I correct, chuckling. “And I’m fine there for now. I haven’t been staying there much lately, anyway.”
“Mm-hm.” He hums, entirely too knowing. “I’ll take a look at the real estate up there and see what I can come up with.”
“It’s probably not great,” I admit. “People don’t really leave Siren’s Point. Shiloh bought his property after someone who’d lived in it their entire life died.”
“Well, maybe Shiloh would have space for a wayward artist,” Daniel replies cheekily. Shaking my head and adding an eye roll for good measure, I push myself back to standing. I feel better, which is pretty usual. Daniel is good at smacking sense back into me.
“It would probably be better if I lived alone.” I start walking back up toward Shiloh’s house, passing by the perfectly kickable rock and leaving it be for now. “I don’t want to be a leech.”
“Well, however it works out, I’ll find you something regardless.” He pauses, and I can feel the words building up in the silence. I wait. After a moment, he says, “So, it’s serious with this guy, then?”
I smile, happy that my assistant is sometimes pushed behind the adopted father persona.
“Yeah,” I agree, “it is. It’s always been serious with him.”
“Okay. Glad to hear we aren’t considering uprooting your entire life for a pretty one-night stand.”
“First of all, he’s very pretty. Second, what the hell do you know about one-night stands? Also, ew, don’t talk to me about sex.”
Daniel snorts. “Listen, I’m old, not dead. If you knew thethings?—”
