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Don’t be an idiot.
We headed into the building, and I always relaxed when we got here. This college was my sanctuary, the only place I felt free. It was like my wings weren’t clipped anymore when I arrived, like the chains that bound me broke.
“I won’t take long,” I told Hayden as he took position by the door to Grisham’s office.
“Take as long as you need,” Hayden assured me, a familiar kindness in his expression that hurt.
I knocked, then entered when Grisham called for me to come in. I closed the door behind me and took the seat I always sat in, my sketchbook in my lap.
I’d been busy, but I’d worked over the past few days, trying to put the suggestions he’d given before to use. It was strange, given all I’d been through, that I could still focus on my art.
The truth was it felt like the only thing that saved me, the only time when I wasn’t caught up in my head about my future, about what I should do, about the mess of my life.
“You look exhausted,” Grisham said, a line appearing between his eyebrows.
Great, now I’m even worrying my adviser.
“I’ve had a lot going on,” I admitted. I couldn’t tell him much, but that was fine, right?
“I can tell. You’ve been looking more and more rundown every time I see you. Is it the exhibit you’re worrying about? Because focusing on it and stressing will only ensure you can’t get anything good done.”
I shook my head. A part of me so badly wanted to spill what I was going through. I’d dealt with him for the past year, had relied on him for his guidance and advice, which made the temptation all the harder to resist.
But I couldn’t. It wasn’t the sort of problem a person could share with just anyone. Normal people couldn’t fathom going through what I was and telling him would only burden or threaten him.
“You can talk to me, you know.” Grisham got out of his seat, then came around the desk and sat in the chair beside me. He set his hand on top of mine and squeezed gently. “I’ve known you for a year now, Kenz, and I want the best for you. I’m your adviser here, so it’s my job to help you when you’re struggling.”
“It’s not about my art,” I whispered.
“So? You know as well as I do that art isn’t just what we put on paper or make out of clay. It’s wrapped up in everything else in our lives, in our joy and our sorrow and our fears. It’s all intertwined and impossible to separate. Believe it or not, I’m a good listener. Maybe if you talk about what you’re dealing with, you’ll be able to wrap your head around it?”
And damn, was that tempting. Everyone in my life had their own agendas. They wanted me to do things for their own use, had their own opinions, had too much background. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about me, but it was shaped by their own lives as well. Talking to someone entirely outside of it would be so nice, to pour out all the details without any background, without them having a dog in the fight.
I always had to hide my real feelings. Everyone worried about me, but they all had their own problems. I ended up trying to be what they needed me to be, what I thought would make things easiest for them, and that exhausted me.
Yet here I had the rare chance to just vent, to tell someone who didn’t know the background or the people involved…
“I just have a lot I’m dealing with,” I said softly. “I need to work on my exhibit pieces, but I’m so distracted by everything else. It’s hard to focus.” I stared at where he held my hand, his grip warm.
It didn’t feel like when Hayden did it now and then, didn’t make my stomach flutter. It felt reassuring, but that was it.
Grisham released my hand and pulled my sketchbook from my lap. He flipped it open to near the back, to the newer pages. He worked his gaze over the most recent sketches I’d done.
The same old pit in my stomach opened, the fear of rejection that sat with every artist when someone else looked at their work—especially unfinished work.
Grisham turned the sketchbook toward me, resting open on both our knees. “Do you know your biggest problem? You get focused on things youthinkmatter and miss the rest. See this?” He tapped an image I’d done a few days before. It was a silhouette of the men out back. I’d seen it from my bedroom window, taken by the way they had appeared like living shadows before the colorful sky as the sun had set. None of them could be made out, but I’d wanted to show a side of them I didn’t normally see.
“Yeah?” I asked to prompt him to go on.
“You spent far more time sketching the sky here. You layered in the pinks and red with your colored pencils, but you spent no time on the figures.”
“But the sky is prettier,” I said with a frown. “The figures were just shadows.”
“Shadows have details, though, they have depth. They aren’t just the absence of color or light—they have purpose. Tell mewhyyou drew this. What made you want to use this as inspiration?”
I thought back to that moment. It was after they’d told me their pasts, when they’d laid bare their pain. I’d understood how difficult it had been, but they’d done it forme.
It was when I’d decided to do what I did, to turn myself over for their good. Looking at them, I’d thought about just how precious they were, how much their happiness meant to me.
