Holden listens patiently, eyeballing the painting like he’s trying to make sense of it.
“At the end of the day, it’s all about how the viewer interprets the art,” I finish. “If you don’t connect with this painting or artist or style, that’s okay. There’s no wrong answer.”
“You mean I don’t need to change my opinion on modern art? Lucky me.”
“Whatisyour opinion?” I bite back a smile because I’m sure I already know.
He shrugs. “Too much effort to figure it out. I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy with my art. Show me something pretty I can figure out without needing a master’s degree.”
“You should try tounderstandit, but that’s different.” I try not to laugh. “But hey, you’ve got your preferences, and I’ve got mine. That’s what I love about this stuff.”
“When will we see your stuff here?”
I gasp. “Not in this lifetime!”
“I mean it, woman.” His eyes flash and my face heats. “What are you up to now? That’s what you’re doing, right? Art? You must have a style, some big project in the works.”
There’s a different edge to his voice now. Light, still teasing, but genuinely curious. He wants to know what I do.
Oh boy.
A wave of uncertainty washes over me again, that cramp I get whenever I think about the future. Or what the hell I’m going todowith it if the egg brings me some giant windfall.
I don’t have a plan beyond keep on keeping on.
I haven’t committed to anything.
Yes, I want to double down on my art career and push myself creatively, but I haven’t figured out what that looks like.
Holden stays silent, waiting for an answer.
I appreciate the way he gives me space to think.
But hey, what’s the harm in the truth?
“I don’t know yet,” I whisper. “I’ve been working on a few things. If I don’t have to grind for rent money, that’ll be a big help. I can focus on the stuff that’s near and dear to my heart.”
“Can I see?”
Oh God. I freeze.
“Cleo, I’m serious.” His gaze intensifies, making me feel small.
“You won’t laugh?”
“Laugh?” His eyebrows dart up. “Never.”
Weirdly, I trust him.
Art that hasn’t gone public feels so personal. A little detached but also too intimate, like sending an emotional nude.
If someone doesn’t like it, if they politely turn their nose up, it’s hard not to get wrecked. When it’s your big, expressive baby in progress, every critique feels like being dragged over a cactus patch, no matter how well intended.
I pull my phone from my bag. “I’ve got a few photos I can show you.”
We sit down on a bench.
I feel his body heat, all radiating warmth and oddly safe.
