“Who do you think will tarnish it? Everyone is supportive.”
Her eyes dip like there’s someone she thinks will be affected by our relationship. “Uh, yeah…”
I kiss her. “Let’s eat turkey together. Thanksgiving’s a start.”
The Belrose basement smells like sweat because Carter has his gym bag laying in the corner. Carter’s sunk into the sectional, one foot on the coffee table, losing at the video game he’s playing.
“Give up,” I tell him.
“I’m pacing myself.” He glances at me for a second and his character dies. “Ah, mother fucker!” He chucks the controller at the floor then grabs his soda. He turns to me. “You’ve been in a mood lately. I think it’s a good mood and that’s disturbing.”
I relax into the recliner with a laugh. I’m thinking about smoking a joint but I don’t really feel like it. Haven’t felt like it much lately. “Don’t be disturbed. Get used to it.”
“I don’t know, man. It’ll be hard. I’m too used to you being quiet and moody.”
I pull out my phone. The Alaria Prize entry deadline is the end of the semester, a couple weeks after Thanksgiving, and I’ve finally started working on something. I made a maquette, a smaller test version of it, and took way too many pics. I turn the screen to show Carter.
He takes my phone and frowns. “Huh.”
My piece is about her. Of course it’s her. It’s a figure pulling herself up out of a base I left as raw clay on purpose. She’s in the act of making or re-making herself. Chin up. It took me a while to figure out what to do with the hands. One open, one closed, reaching and refusing in the same breath, because that’s the only honest thing I know how to make her do.
My maquette is rough but the concept is there.
Carter returns my phone. “Bold move.”
“It won’t win.” I glance at the screen. “They don’t say it, but I know from what’s won previous years, that the judges want a thesis, like climate grief, the surveillance state, something political. I’m handing them a woman rising from clay like a phoenix. I want to win but I don’t want to make crap to do it.This is the only thing my hands will make right now. Everything else I start turns into her by the second hour.”
“Follow your heart, man,” Carter says with a goofy grin.
“She invited me to Thanksgiving.”
He angles toward me to give me his complete focus, which from Carter is the same as a hand on the shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” And then I say it. Out loud, first time in my life, to the one person who’s earned hearing it. “I’ve been in love with her since we were kids.”
“I know that. You think I’m dumb?”
“No. Just wanted to say it out loud.”
“Heard, chef,” he says. He grabs a second controller and tosses it at me. “Help me beat this level because this game pisses me off.”
We play for five minutes before we both die. He just glances at me, unbothered this time. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
“Play again,” I say.
He laughs. “Not the game. June. You coming to Thanksgiving? You gonna be official?”
“I don’t know if we’re official yet. Thanksgiving’s a start.”
“I’m happy for you.” He starts the game again, talking while we try to beat the level. “I mean it. I’ve watched you both be miserable for years. If this is what makes you less of a catastrophe, do it.”
We fail again to complete the level.
“Can I talk to you about something?” Carter asks. Something he never asks.
My concern is immediate. “Yeah.”
“I’m worried about Aeron.”
