Carter tilts his head. “That’s…a very good question. He had the nickname when I joined the team, so I haven’t really ever thought about it.”
“Do youevercall him Miles?”
“Sure,” he says. “Brick is what I call him when we’re on the ice or in the locker room. But if I’m calling his name when I’m standing in his kitchen, I’ll probably call him Miles.”
I like this answer, but I can’t exactly pinpoint why. Maybe because my brother isn’t just a brick wall of a hockey player, so I appreciate when people see him as more.
“What about you? Do you have a nickname?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a beat before he says, “Just Carter. Or…Cars.” Something about his tone draws my gaze to his. He almost sounds like he’s disappointed tonothave a nickname, though I could be completely off base. I don’t know him well enough to truly tell. “The team calls my brother Sonny,” he says. “Short for Williamson. Actually, did you meet Theo?”
“Not officially.” I look past Carter to where Theo is sitting on his other side. This close, they look less alike than they did when I was looking at Theo from across the room. They’reclearly identical, but there’s something about Carter’s eyes that makes it easy for me to tell them apart. There’s a kindness there—a warmth that feels distinct.
“Theo, Sarah. Sarah, Theo,” Carter says, doing a quick round of introductions.
“Nice to meet you,” Theo says, offering me a handshake, but he quickly falls into conversation with the teammate sitting to his right. Sebastian, I think?
I’m never going to remember everyone’s names.
“So how long will you be in Atlanta?” Carter asks. “Is this home for good?”
The sadness that seems to have taken up permanent residence at the back of my mind flits back to the surface. “Unfortunately, no,” I say. “I was here for school, and since I graduated, I have to go back to Canada in a few months.”
“You don’t seem thrilled about that.”
“There are definitely things I miss about Winnipeg, but it hasn’t really felt like home in a long time. Miles and Anna—they’re pretty much my only family. So…yeah. Leaving is going to be really hard.”
“You can’t get a work visa?” Carter asks. “Sorry. That’s probably a dumb question. I’m sure you’ve explored all your options.”
“Not a dumb question,” I say. “But yeah. If I were a nurse or a teacher or worked in STEM, I’d have more options. But it’s a little more complicated for artists. There’s a visa designed for those with extraordinary talent, but that means you basically have to be a superstar.”
“Wait. Are you talking about an O-1 visa? A few of my teammates over the years have had those.”
“Exactly that,” I say. “They aren’t impossible for artists, but I haven’t built that kind of career yet.”
And now I’m out of time.
After my graduation, I managed to extend my student visa for what my immigration lawyer referred to as “optional practical training.” It meant working as an artist-in-residence for a community arts center in Savannah, but it was mostly about buying me an extra twelve months to build the relationships I need if I want to stay in the States.
And I’m definitely getting closer. I’ve had a few smaller galleries express interest in my work, and I’ve sold enough to support myself, something I know a lot of artists can’t say. But I need to go bigger, establish a presence in New York, possibly find an agent.
There’s no way I’ll manage all of that in the three months I have to work with.
“You haven’t built ityet,” Carter says. “But I’m sure you’ll get there.” He smiles, and a tiny dimple appears in his right cheek. The second it disappears, I feel an impulsive need to say something clever just so I can see it again.
“He says, having never seen my work,” I say.
“Show me then.” He takes a bite of his burger, his nonchalance making it seem like he didn’t just make a monumental request.
“It’s not like asking to see a picture of my dog,” I say. “Showing you my work—that’s a big deal.”
“Is it? Couldn’t I just google you?”
I bite my lip. Of course he could google me. I wouldn’t be very serious about my work if I didn’t have a website. Or at least an Instagram profile. Butaskingsomeone to google me is very different than finding out someone already did.
It’s like that strange feeling when you give someone a gift and they ask if they can open itright then,while you watch. I mean, sure. Open it now. But it’s also totallyfine if you want to wait until I’m gone so I never,everhave to deal with the possibility of you hating it.
What’s more, I feel weirdly concerned about what Carter will think of my work. I really,reallywant him to like it, which makes zero sense since I literally just met the man.
