“All they keep telling Arlo is that he’s not a local, which is total bullshit.”
Asher shakes his head. “You weren’t the only one who left ten years ago.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, and what does it have to do with Arlo?” Is he talking about Jayden? Did Jayden leave too?
“This isn’t my story to tell, but I am sure the reason Arlo hasn’t been given a license is that he’s gay.”
Rage builds inside me so fast that I want to punch the wall or break something.
“Levi,” Asher stands in front of me. “They’re not worth it. Listen to me. Focus on the excuse they’re giving instead of the truth. If they won’t give Arlo a license because he’s not a local, then make him one.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I’ve been gone for ten years. I’m the least local person around.”
He shrugs. “I don’t have the answers you need, but trust me, my mother needs to be challenged, not changed.”
Asher’s words stay with me for the rest of my shift. How can anyone challenge Glenda Martin? And without consequence?
12
ARLO
“Hold up,can you say that again?” I ask Sage. No, there’s no way he’s agreed to it.
Sage is by the window working on a papercraft display, and since we’re having a quiet spell, I thought it was a good time to talk to him about my idea.
“I think using the barn to host art classes is not only a brilliant idea, it’s also in my business plan,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, the problem has been finding someone to teach the classes. Stillwater is notorious for crafts, but we seriously lack on the education side.”
“More than a few customers have mentioned that. It feels weird that we sell painting supplies, but unless people already know how to do it, there’s nowhere to learn.”
I pass him the acrylic card display holder.
“Tell me about it. I can find you the perfect—or perfectly weird—gift, but my painting skills stop at stick men with stick dicks.”
“What’s your obsession with dicks?” I ask.
“What’s not to obsess about? Dicks are great…and funny.”
I laugh.
“You never said you could paint before,” he says
I scratch my neck. “It’s not something I talk about to anyone. Painting is…was in the past. I’m not even sure I can still do it, but I think it might be a way to give back to the town.”
He lines up the cards with a couple of different colored envelopes and then places mounting boards, glue, and various small rolls of ribbon next to it.
“Hold on,” he says, leaning back and away from the window. “I’m sorry to ask, but if you’re suggesting this…you do know what you’re doing, right?”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and bring up photos of my last exhibition. They look like they were painted by someone else.
Have I changed that much that I can’t identify with my own art anymore?
Sage takes the phone, and not a moment later, he gasps. “Fuck me, you painted this?”
“Yeah…it was a long time ago.”
