I snort. “Well, if we are staying at my place, we will definitely have a curfew.” She knows better than that.
“Obviously,” she waves a dismissive hand. “That's why you should tell yours you'll be staying with me, and then we can go wherever the night takes us.”
“Sal.” I shoot her a look. “I actually like knowing where I’ll be sleeping. Unlike you, I’m not interested in waking up on some random guy’s couch. Or worse, in his bed.”
“You think so little of me.” She clutches her chest like I’ve wounded her. “Fine. We’ll stay at mine. Just convince your parents so we don’t have to be home by ten freaking o’clock.”
“Deal. But I get the bed.”
She groans. We both know it’s pointless to argue. I always end up on the floor eventually. She is a mess of flailing arms and legs when she sleeps, and I’d prefer not to wake up covered in bruises.
Before she can respond, Mr. Hayes begins his lecture. Instead of focusing on his words, I find my gaze centered on his hands again. Imagining them trailing across my skin…
Ugh. I need to get a hold of my hormones.
Class winds down and my nerves return with a vengeance. The second the bell rings, I almost tuck tail and run, but I’m trying to be brave, so I suck in a deep breath and go for it.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” I tell Sal before making my way to Mr. Hayes’ desk. I wait as the last students file out of the room, then pull my drawing out from my folder.
“Here you go, Mr. Hayes.” My voice is steady, a smallmiracle. “Not only on time, but early. I hope you appreciate how out of the norm that is for me.”
He smirks and takes the paper from me, eyes dropping to the page. And staying there.
I shift on my feet as the silence stretches out before me. His expression is unreadable. Brows slightly furrowed, lips pursed in an expression too serious for my liking.
A familiar tightness curls in my chest. I know this look. It’s the same one my parents get when they pick apart my art, searching for imperfections, missing the point entirely. All too ready to shoot down my dreams. They call it “preparing me for the real world,” but all it does is make home feel like hostile territory.
Finally, he looks up at me. His expression softens and emotion flickers in his dark eyes. It almost looks like awe or admiration.
“Sophie,” he says, voice more quiet than before. “I’m beyond impressed. This is incredible.”
The genuine appreciation in his tone almost brings me to tears as his words hit me square in the chest. Someoneseesme. Someone gets it.
“Really?” My voice comes out breathy and unsure. “I wasn’t sure you’d like it. But I’m glad you do.”
He shakes his head, eyes tracing the lines of my drawing again. “This kind of talent shouldn’t be hidden. Have you ever submitted your work anywhere? Magazines, contests?”
I laugh, shifting on my feet awkwardly. “No, it’s just a hobby, really. I don’t expect anything to come of it.”
Downplaying my dreams is a conditioned response. A side effect of growing up under the weight of my parents’ opinions.
His jaw tightens. “That’s bullshit.” His eyes flick to mine, serious. “Excuse my language, but it is. You think you should push this aside for real life? There’s plenty of time to work anine-to-five job. What you’ll regret is not chasing what you love.”
The rawness in his voice catches me off guard.
Those were not the words I'd expected to hear, but they’re exactly what I needed. Someone finally giving me permission to dream big. To chase those dreams.
“Look,” he rubs the back of his neck, “this may be overstepping, but I have a friend that owns her own gallery in Atlanta. I'd love to show her your work, if you’re okay with that.”
My breath catches in my throat. “Really?”
I inhale deeply, weighing it. I don’t want to get my hopes up. Maybe he’s biased. Maybe his friend takes one look and laughs. But then I hear his words again,what you’ll regret is not trying, and before I can talk myself out of it, I nod.
“That'd be amazing.” My smile feels huge. “Thank you. So much.”
His smile in return is softer. “Anytime.” He nods toward the door. “Now, you’d better hurry before you’re late to second period. I wouldn’t want to be the reason you get in trouble.”
I hesitate, just a fraction of a second too long. And then, like an idiot, I say, “I mean… I wouldn’t mind that.”
