“Thank you for sharing that with me. One day…”
“I can wait,” I say. “Are you done with my painting? Do I get to see it?”
“No.”
“No you’re not done, or no I can’t see it?”
“No, you can’t see it.”
“Not fair.” I pretend to pout. “Let me.” I kiss him. “See it.” Another kiss. “Please. I’ll do anything you want me to.” And I’ll love every second of it.
He chuckles. “You already do.”
Good point.
“Please, Miles?”
“Yes,” he says, then leads me over.
17
Miles
Dax follows meto the canvas.
Aside from what Tatum and I do for cash, I don’t normally share my work with people. It’s not insecurity because I know I’m good, but it’s one thing to share an anonymous video where no one knows it’s me, another when they do and can look, maybe even probe, for what’s really under the surface. However, I’m not uneasy as I share this with Dax. I want him to see himself as I see him, not like his dad sees him; although, I doubt his dad sees him at all.
I give him a moment to absorb it, hoping he’ll see what lies behind each brushstroke, every carefully executed movement to get it precisely as it needed to be. But yes, this is right. There’s the bright yellow of the face, green eyes looking out at us as he wears a familiar smile that doesn’t irritate me nearly as much now that I know him better.
Eventually, I ask, “Do you see it?”
Why does it feel so important to me? It’s not that I expect him to see it, but I want him to.
“Yes,” he whispers.
“What do you see?”
“It’s all very bright, but there’s something sad here too. These dark streaks here.” He gestures to the gray around the face. “It’s like clouds looming over me.”
“It’s not just sadness.”
“No, grief.”
There’s so much relief in knowing he gets it, it feels like I just took a hit from a joint. But there’s also pain because now I know why the grief is there, which is all too familiar. When he said she had the world’s best laugh, it cut deep. Made me remember all the wonderful times I shared with my mom. In some ways, we were lucky to have them. Or maybe unlucky because of how much more painful it was to have them ripped from our lives so cruelly.
“Even with the grief, it’s still beautiful,” he murmurs, as though he can’t quite understand why.
“Because you are beautiful.” I don’t hesitate. The words come out like they’re the most natural thing in the world because they’re true. I’m so pleased with how I managed to capture it all, carefully, perfectly, in such a quick production. “I wonder if all that light from you is to drown out the darkness,” I muse. “Maybe you hope that people won’t catch a glimpse of it, see things they shouldn’t.”
He looks shocked by what I’ve said, though I can’t imagine why.
“Am I wrong?” I’m starting to worry it’s all something I made up in my head. Maybe it’s not about him at all, but me projecting.
He’s quiet. Too quiet.
“Am I?” I press, fear gripping me. I don’t know why it feels so damned important to me to understand him.
He shakes his head, saying softly, “At first, I was thinking the grief was about my mom, but it’s about my dad too…and a life I thought my family would have together.”
