He looks at his hands, then grimaces. “I wanted to hold you, but I’m covered in oil.”
A small, watery laugh escapes my throat. “You’re a mess.”
“I’m a mess who wants to be here,” he says firmly. “I’m sorry I triggered it. I’m sorry I was late. I should have asked the trucker to let me use his phone.”
“He probably would have thought you were crazy.”
“I am crazy. About fixing this.”
He stays on his knees. He doesn’t demand forgiveness, but sits in the discomfort with me, letting me regulate. He offers me his vulnerability, physically lowering himself so I have the power.
I take a deep breath. The band around my chest loosens. The panic recedes.
I sit down on the step, bringing myself to his level. I reach out and take his greasy, bleeding hand in mine. The oil stains my fingers.
“We have to get that cut cleaned,” I say.
“Pasta first?” he asks hopefully.
“I threw it away.”
“Pizza,” he decides. “We order pizza. I shower. And then I let you check my phone call log so you can see the battery died at 5:50.”
“I don’t need to check it,” I say. And I mean it.
“Check it anyway,” he says, squeezing my hand, smearing oil over my knuckles.
After dinner, I need to decompress. So I’m sitting at the desk in Ross’s old home office, which I’ve reclaimed as my studio.
Crumpled paper litters the floor, white balls of frustration. Sunlight pours through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the space where inspiration used to live. Today, the light feels mocking.
I stare at the blank sheet. Every pencil stroke feels heavy, sounding less like creation and more like a countdown to failure. I am lost in the haze.
I sigh heavily, shoulders hunched, rubbing my temples as frustration builds within me. The sketchbook lies open, revealing a collage of half-formed ideas. I drop my pencil again and press my palms into my eyes. Why can’t I just create? Why can’t I find the spark?
As I glance toward the door, I spot Ross silently standing there. For a fleeting moment, our eyes meet. There’s a shift in the air. He hesitates before stepping inside, hands tucked into his pockets.
He takes a seat across from me, close enough that I feel his support. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low and caring.
“I’m fine,” I reply, though the tremor in my voice betrays me. I realize I’m tired of lying to myself, let alone him. “Just struggling a bit with this commission.”
Ross shifts slightly in his chair, tilting his head as he observes me. “Can I see it?” His tone is layered with genuine curiosity. Still, I hesitate. Vulnerability is difficult. But his presence is comforting, and the idea of laying it bare doesn’t feel as intimidating with him here.
I push the sketch toward him, feeling the warmth of my pulse quicken. “I don’t know if it’s working,” I admit.
He studies the paper, furrowing his brow. I watch closely as the lines of his concentration deepen. It’s different watching him think this way—not as the architect busy with corporate designs, but as someone who genuinely cares about my artistic expression.
“What if you shifted the perspective here?” he suggests after a moment. His finger points lightly to an area of the sketch where the composition feels off-kilter. “It might give it a sense of depth, like the figures are engaging with their surroundings instead of being trapped in them.”
I blink, surprised by the insight he offers. The way he frames his comment feels respectful, acknowledging my vision while guiding me toward something that could work. “I never thought of it that way.”
He watches intently. His fingers are poised as I incorporate the suggestion, shifting the elements on the page. I nudge them until the composition breathes.
I lean closer. My pulse quickens.
Suddenly, the shapes align.
When I look up at Ross, relief spills through me.
