“I do not.”
I glance nervously at Beckett and bite my lip. “We want to try to change the narrative.”
“Let me guess. It’s the Three Alphas and a Ball podcast. They hate me.”
“They hate the Scorpions.”
“They are probably going to say I’m tanking the team and faking an injury just for a snow day.”
“A snow day?”
“You know, a snow day.”
“Becks, I’m from Florida. It snowed once for ten minutes when I was like five.”
“Oh, right.” He pulls me along as we follow Ash. She sidesteps all the kids playing with the light board and moves on to a giant wall-sized tablet. “Maybe that’s why Ash and Pierce are so grumpy. They don’t have that core memory of no rules and being able to do whatever you want.”
“What? I’m not grumpy?” I ask laughing, not wanting to be left out.
“No. You’re just serious. And controlling.”
“Controlling?” I stop dead, which forces Beckett to stop too.
“Yeah. You get anxious and then you bust out the label maker and weigh out little baggies of high-protein snacks. You organize the linen closet by color because you don’t want to sound bossy and tell Pierce or me what to do. And then you go buy throw pillows. It’s adorable really.”
“That’s not controlling.” I grumble as he pulls me forward. “That’s just liking things in order.”
“Where are my keys?” There’s a note of laughter in his voice.
“What?”
“When you and Ash got back from the supermarket, I was tearing up the kitchen looking for my keys.”
I opened my mouth and shut it as my face flames.
“You don’t want me to drive because of the concussion, so you hid my keys.”
I slide them out of my pocket and offer them to Beckett.
“See? You’re busted and embarrassed, and it’s cute.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just…”
“I know.”
He squeezes the back of my neck and pulls me closer. Beckett is so fucking generous with his feelings that it makes me feel like dog shit sometimes. We follow a ramp down to a sunken area of the exhibit where Ash is standing in front of a wall-sized display. It’s noticeably warmer. I regret that we didn’t check our coats.
Ash tentatively sticks her hand out to touch the screen, but color and light erupt before she even makes contact. The afterimage of her hand lingers on the glass, a shadow that stains in pastel shades for a moment before fading away. She startles a little, then tries again, slower, almost like she’s not sure if she should. Or maybe she’s just testing it.
She sweeps her palm through the air and a wider band appears, a trailing band of color follows her. The color shifts as she rotates her wrist. It looks accidental and deliberate at the same time, with these soft pastel trails blooming where she moves.
For a long second, she just stands there, moving her hand in lazy figure-eights, watching the color billow up then drain away. She tilts her head and reaches out again, this time with her fingers splayed and closer to the surface of the wall. The intensity of the colors change. She turns her head, and I can see a smile spread across her lips. My breath catches. She’s beautiful like this, unguarded and focused. Maybe Beckett feels it too, because he lets out the smallest happy sound. His hand is still on my neck, connecting us in the moment.
She strips off her jacket and lets it fall forgotten to the floor, giving her both hands to use. She starts mapping out shapes, spirals, arcs, then long slashes with no hesitation. An abstract seascapeor mountain range emerges on the wall. She adds to it, morphs it when the effects fade. I stand there, watching her draw with light and air and distance, watching the color follow her, trying to keep up. Beckett, beside me, is quiet too, like we’re both lost to the vision she’s creating.
Then a kid sprints up. I can barely hear him babble something like “that’s ugly,” and wiggle his fat little fingers between Ash and the wall. The screen reacts instantly and puts gouges of neon blue in her softly-blended slopes, overwriting her masterpiece.
She visibly slumps, and the movement takes her right to the floor to pick up her coat and jam her arms into the sleeves.
