Jules’s cheeks burned. “Not really. I just…paint. I like color. I try to make it feel alive.”
The man’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “And your process—do you plan everything out, or is it more intuitive?”
Jules shifted their weight, the paintbrush suddenly heavy in their hand. “I sketch a little, but mostly I make it up as I go. Sometimes, the canvas tells me what it wants.”
He made another note. “Have you shown in galleries? Sold work?”
Jules’s confidence shrank, shoulders curling in. “A couple of commissions. Nothing big.”
“Hmm.” He stepped back, studying the mural as if weighing its worth. “You have a certain raw energy. It’s rough, but…compelling. I’ll be watching your progress.”
Jules managed a tight nod as he turned away, disappearing into the flow of festival-goers. The space he left behind felt colder, the mural’s colors suddenly too bright, too loud. Jules’s handtrembled, paint smudging the edge of the cloud they’d been working on. After seeing how excited the kids were this morning, they’d decided to hide as many animals in the mural as possible to create a bit of an interactive installation.
But no matter how they tried, the stranger’s criticism lingered in the back of their mind, erasing all of the good feelings from earlier.
Am I a fraud? Should I know these things? Should I have had a better answer?
A shadow interrupted their spiral. Paige, all bounce and sun-streaked curls, slid between Jules and the mural with a practiced smile. “Hey, superstar.” She threw a quick glance down the street, then back at Jules. “Everything okay?”
Jules tried to smile, but it didn’t quite land. “Just got grilled by someone who thinks I should know my art history.”
“Ugh. Art snobs.” Paige rolled her eyes, then raised her voice just enough for anyone lingering nearby to hear. “You need a sign that says, ‘Compliments welcome, criticism can be kept to yourself.’” She nudged Jules’s elbow. “Want me to run interference if he comes back?”
Jules let out a shaky breath. “No, I’m good. I just… He made it sound like I was making it all up as I went.”
“Which is exactly what you’re supposed to do,” Paige insisted, her tone gentle but firm. “That’s why people love your work. You make this feel alive, not like something pulled out of a textbook.” She squeezed Jules’s shoulder. “Don’t let one guy ruin your day.”
Relief washed through Jules, slow and tentative. Paige’s presence was grounding, her sibling energy a shield against thelingering sting of the stranger’s scrutiny. Now that they were dating her big brother, she was ready to stand guard wherever needed. The friendship they’d shared over the years had taken on a whole new meaning, one Jules savored. For the first time since the man had walked away, Jules felt their breath even out, the tension in their chest beginning to ease.
“Thanks,” Jules murmured, voice small but grateful. “You always know what to say.”
Paige grinned and handed over a granola bar. “Eat. Hydrate. And remember—you’re not here to impress anyone but yourself. The rest of us are just lucky to watch.”
Jules nodded, the weight in their chest a little lighter. With Paige at their side, the mural didn’t feel quite so daunting, the colors not quite so loud. The world narrowed to the two of them, a bubble of safety in the middle of Main Street.
They were still standing there, Paige chattering about her students’ latest art disasters, when Keaton’s familiar silhouette appeared in the distance, lunch tote in hand.
Keaton approached quietly,his steps measured, as if he’d already guessed the mood before he’d even arrived. He stopped just outside the reach of the mural’s paint splatters, holding a lunch tote, and waited for Jules to nod before coming closer.
“Hey,” Keaton said, his voice low and meant just for Jules. “Brought you a break.”
Jules tried for a smile. “You always show up with food right when I need it.”
Keaton’s mouth twitched. “It’s either that or you pass out on a ladder and get me in trouble with my mom for letting you skip lunch.”
Paige grinned and squeezed Jules’s arm. “I’m off to wrangle kids. Shout if you need backup, Picasso.” She gave Keaton a look that Jules recognized—a silent handoff of responsibility.
Keaton set the lunch out on a folding table, unpacking sandwiches, chips, and a thermos of coffee. He set out two mugs—one with a cartoon frog, the other plain.
Jules sat down, feeling the tremor in their hands. Keaton slid the frog mug and a sandwich over. “Eat. You don’t have to talk. Just sit with me.”
They ate in silence, but Jules didn’t feel pressured to fill it. Keaton didn’t ask questions or try to fix anything. He just sat there, his knee bumping Jules’s under the table, a quiet reminder that Jules wasn’t alone.
Jules let out a slow breath, feeling their shoulders relax. The simple act of eating together with Keaton’s steady presence made the tension in their chest ease. The mural loomed, unfinished, but for now, Jules could set that worry aside.
Keaton glanced over. “You don’t have to paint for anyone else. Just yourself.”
Jules nodded. “I know. It’s easy to forget.”
