But, like every other day, I bite my tongue and enjoy the shared solitude.
We return inside and get back to it. Hopper never looks at anything I’m working on unless I’ve given him explicit permission, and I don’t know if I can ever let him see this.
While all of my work is abstract, the bodies intertwined with each other perfectly represent the intimacy I shared with Maverick. I’m probably delusional to think anyone would look at this piece and get where I was going with it, but it’s pretty fucking obvious to me.
I go back to the layering technique as Hopper continues his work on the wayward nostril, and it occurs to me that we both have faith that our projects will eventually come together.
As the day progresses, a few people start up some projects in the foundry, and the space takes on the familiar smells and temperature I’ve grown to appreciate. A little bit later, I step back and pull my phone from my pocket to take a picture.
I send a heavily cropped version to Maverick.
“That’s beautiful work,” Hopper says, appearing suddenly over my right shoulder, and I drop his very expensive paintbrush.
I guess I do still startle sometimes.
He grimaces. “Sorry, I didn’t ask to see it. You were just smiling so much that I had to know what you were working on.”
“It’s fine, Hop.” Considering he hasn’t mentioned that it looks like I’m holding his nephew in my arms, I ask, “So, I did okay?”
He rolls his eyes. “Did you dookay? Fuckno. This isbrilliantwork.”
If he knew I was his son, I’d be worried he was blowing smoke up my ass. As my friend, though, he’s definitely pointed out where I’ve fucked up the color theory or the shadowing.
I laugh and pick up the brush. “Thanks, Hop,” I call out as he goes to get the paint thinner.
As Hopper cleans, his eyes sparkle as they continue returning to the piece. Like he really, genuinely likes what I did. I try not to get emotional.
“I suppose it’s better than my crime-scene paintings.”
“There’s no ‘better,’” he says with air quotes. “Your crime-scene paintings are so visceral. It’s actually a little uncomfortable to see them sometimes.”
“Oh, sorry.” His opinion means the world to me, so I’m quick to explain, “I promise it’s just about getting it out of my head. I’m not a serial killer,” I joke.
His face splits into an enormous smile, and he laughs. “I know that. Even though I’m not a police detective, your vision is so clear that every time I see your work, I feel like I learned something more about you, even if they are hard to view sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, scratching his overgrown five o’clock shadow.
“I have a pretty terrible history,” he says lightly, as if to protect me from a heavy truth. “But that’s also why I understand it.”
His smile falters, and he breaks eye contact. I let him find his words.
“I do sometimes sketch what I’ve been through.” He takes a deep breath and sends me a fragile smile. “I usually only do those in charcoals though. Because I burn them.”
My jaw swings open.
“Wait. You burn Hopper Hughes originals?”
See also: entirely not the point.
Hopper’s good humor returns. “No. I burn Hopper Hughes’s trash sketches about being locked in a closet for three days. No one wants to buy that.”
My eyes widen, and my throat constricts, shock and grief hitting me at once.
Who did that to him?
“That happen to you often?” I ask, not sure if he even wants to be talking about this.
