Breathe.
I think about my parents and how they have no idea why I suddenly couldn’t live in Canyon, Texas, anymore. Hell, I could barely explain it myself. But Hopper Hughes is here.He’s hereand wants me in his life.
I don’t know if I can handle painting with my birth father.
Neither can I turn him down outright.
I have got to get the fuck out of this car.
“I look forward to it.” I clear my throat and gesture to Angela Lansbury, glaring at me from the window above my balcony. “She’s, uh, gonna start shredding my shoes if I don’t go inside now.”
He follows my line of sight and laughs. “That is the biggest cat I’ve ever seen in my life. You should bring her.”
What?
I turn toward the passenger window, suddenly blinking away tears I can’t explain.
“You want me to bring Angela Lansbury to your warehouse?” I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
In the window, there’s a reflection of his casually lifted shoulder. “Every artist’s space needs a muse.”
My nose is runny, a sniff covered up with a laugh.
Another miracle, casually offered.
As much as my parents love, appreciate, and support me, we have always had to put extra care into our communication.
“Let’s slow it down, son. Help me to understand.”
“Your mind fascinates me. I wish I could see the world through your eyes.”
“I need a Boone translator. Like one of those apps.”
I wondered, more often than I’d ever admit, if my birth father would just…get me.
Hopper knowing, without explanation, that Angela is a critical element of my creative process is barely worth noting.
I snag a small corner of my inner cheek, biting until the taste of copper pennies replaces the desire to throw myself into his arms and sob.
Deep breath.
One more.
Why does it hurt to be understood in such a minor way?
Because you’re exhausted and you need sleep.
Maybe I should lose his number and forget Maverick’s while I’m at it.
In the meantime, the car has gone entirely quiet. I turn to say…something, but Hopper is just sitting there. Happy in the quiet. No awkwardness. No need to fill the silence.
“Well, I better get up there before she files a complaint,” I joke.
He grins, bouncing in his seat. “I look forward to painting with you.”
“Me too.”
I exit the car and walk up the steps, numb as I register the familiar groan of concrete and metal. I open the door, and Angela Lansbury meows at me.
