“I know,” I say. “But the lying part is still hard.”
There’s a bowl of Poppy’s crayons on the table, and Miles takes a few out, lining them up on the table in a neat row. “It’ll all be behind you soon,” he says. “Now you just have to get certified and find a job. The hardest part is behind you.”
I close my eyes. I really,reallydon’t want to have this conversation with Miles right now. Not today.
“Speaking of which,” he continues, “I talked to the principal at Poppy’s school the other day. They already have an art teacher on staff, but he mentioned a few other private schools in the area where he has connections. He said he’d be willing to make some introductions whenever you’re ready.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that Miles is networking on my behalf. Despite the many ways I’ve tried to protest, he always circles back to teaching.
But have I really been explicit with Miles? Have I told him outright that I don’t want to do it?
I don’t love confrontation generally, but I particularly don’t love it with my brother. But after all the success I’ve had the past two months, it feels callous for him to throw this at me like it’s the only option on the table.
“I don’t want to teach, Miles,” I say, my voice barely audible.
He scoffs. “Do you want to stay in Georgia?”
“Of course I do. But that isn’t the only way. I keep telling you that—showing you the many ways I’m finding success—and you keep dismissing it like it’s never going to work.”
“Because it might not,” he argues. He scoops up the crayons and dumps them back in the bowl. “I don’t understand why it has to be one or the other. You can still paint if you’re working as an art teacher.”
“Not really,” I say. “Not like I need to. Teaching is a full-time job. It’s also about the optics—about wanting to look like a professional artist.”
He folds his arms across his chest and levels me with his most big-brother stare. “I’m just saying. It seems like a lot to hang your hopes on when Carter has only promised you a year.”
I lift a hand to my neck, massaging at the stress suddenly building there. “I know that,” I finally say. “But I can’t turn myself into someone I’m not.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks, tension hanging heavy in the air. I realize I’m being idealistic. For Miles, who has always lived grounded in pragmatism, it probably seems naive, even childish for me to resist the most practical and obvious solution to my dilemma.
But somehow, deep in my gut, Iknowthat teaching isn’tthe answer. That what I would be giving up by pursuing that route would outweigh what I would gain. Even if it means going back to Canada.
Footsteps approach the doorway, and I look up to see Carter leaning into the room.
“Hey,” he says cautiously, clearly clocking the tension between Miles and me. “Everything okay?”
I look at Miles, at the worry etched into his face.
Then I look at Carter, his expression open and easy. No expectation. No pressure.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “But do you think we can go? I’m suddenly feeling really tired.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Carter says. His eyes dart over to Miles, and his jaw tightens, making me wonder what look my brother is giving him. Whatever it is, Carter shakes it off easily because when he crosses the room, his eyes are warm and focused entirely on me. He holds out his hand. “Ready?”
As I slip my fingers into his waiting palm, my brother clears his throat. “We aren’t done talking about this.”
Carter squeezes my fingers, giving me the strength to look over at Miles.
“We are, Miles,” I say. “It’s not your concern anymore.”
Carter’s hand settles on my back, warm and reassuring as he guides me through the crowd, through all the well-wishers sending us off with one lastCongratulations.
We smile and wave as we make our way out the front door where Theo is waiting in the circle drive, leaning against Carter’s truck.
The crowd spills out of the house behind us, cheering as Theo tosses his brother the keys, then steps to the side.
Carter opens the passenger door for me, then offers me ahand while I hoist myself up, wedding dress and all. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to my lips, eliciting another whooping cheer from the watching crowd, then circles the truck and climbs in beside me.
My situation isn’t any different now than it was five minutes ago, when I was talking about it with my brother.
