Roland hummed an affirmative sound and gestured melodramatically to the studio space. “Well, here it is.”
Gabriel stepped past him. “So this is where the brilliant Roland Wilson creates his masterpieces?”
Roland snorted.
Gabriel’s head snapped toward him and his eyes narrowed. “Do you really not see what a talented painter you are?”
“Talent is subjective.”
“As you like. What are those?” Gabriel asked, politely ignoring the destroyed flower canvas and gesturing toward the bubble-wrapped canvases in the corner.
“They’re for a show on Saturday. Gallery 17 in Venice.”
“Hmn,” Gabriel mused. “What are they though?”
Roland closed his eyes and saw blue.
“Sunrises. Four of them.”
“Seasonal?” Gabriel inquired.
Roland nodded.
“I like it. Rebirth of the famed Roland Wilson.”
“We’ll see.”
Gabriel clapped a hand on Roland’s back, then turned and walked back to the living room, bypassing the table and heading for the front door.
“You shouldn’t underestimate yourself.”
Roland rolled his eyes and followed Gabriel to the door.
“May I offer you some parting advice?” Gabriel cracked the door open, then tucked his hands into his pockets.
“You may.”
“Joel and Donny are very different people, but they both want the same thing. When Joel left me, I didn’t see a way to go on without him because he was such a large part of my world. I merely existed in limbo until Joel decided he wanted to be with me again.”
“No offense, Gabriel, but that’s not entirely helpful.” Roland leaned against the open door as Gabriel stepped into the hallway.
“Donny doesn’t want to be anyone’s entire world, nor does he want you to be his. If he’s anything like his sister, he loves fiercely and wholly, but only those who deserve it. So find a way to be deserving of it.”
And with that, Gabriel turned and walked back to the elevators.
“I’m trying,” Roland whispered, even though no one was there to hear.
He pushed the door closed, then returned to his studio. The paint was still ready. He grabbed Donny’s sketchbook and studied it closely before he mixed some black into a cobalt blue and began to paint.
Hours later, Roland stepped back, exhausted. Donny’s sketchbook was unfortunately now covered with paint, as he’d stopped repeatedly to trace his finger along the lines Donny had drawn so he could understand the shape more effectively before putting anything on the canvas.
Roland dug out a clean brush, then added some white to enhance some of the curving lines, then dropped the sketchbook and brush to the ground. This was the first time in years, Roland felt overwhelmed with the intensity of art. He chewed his lips between his teeth and looked down at the open page of the sketchbook on the ground, then back at the canvas.
This was something he could reconcile. The paper showed the Roland Donny saw, and the canvas exposed the self that Roland saw. Not the Roland he used to be, but the Roland he was now— the Roland he would always be. He was a jumbled mess of pieces that were part of the same set, but wouldn’t always fit together right.
Roland dug his phone out of his pocket and pulled up his contacts. He scrolled past Donny’s name, even though his finger hovered for longer than it needed. He found the name he was looking for and dialed.
“Doctor’s office.”
