"I think it's the best painting I've ever seen," I say.
"Really?"
"Well… I like looking at it, baby."
He beams. "I'm signing it. It's going on our wall."
"We don't really have a wall. We’re not allowed to decorate our room."
"I'm putting it above your bed!" he exclaims, in that same excited way as always. It’s really sweet.
"You're not putting it anywhere."
"Watch me, Daddy."
Reed leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the exchange. "You two are disgusting," he says.
"Jealous?" Liam fires back, not missing a beat.
"In your dreams, sweetheart."
The guard in the corner glances up from her phone, scans the room, goes back to scrolling. We're fine. Just a group of kids in an art class, making things, talking shit, being normal for an hour.
Jack finishes his Griff portrait and starts a new one. I raise my eyebrows. It’s Reed, without asking permission. Reed notices, scowls, then deliberately poses, chin tilted up, jaw flexed.
"Get my good side," Reed says.
"You don't have a good side," I say.
"Shut up, Farley. Both my sides are good sides."
"Draw the scar bigger," Liam suggests. "Make it dramatic."
"Dramatic. It's already dramatic," Reed says, touching hisjaw. "I got this in an actual fight. Not a playground scuffle like some people." He looks directly at me. I roll my eyes again.
“Why are you talking to me again?” I ask. I mean it. We've had nothing but animosity for three years.
“Don’t tell me who I can or cannot talk to. If I want to talk to you, I will,” he says, petty. I sigh, deciding to tune him out. Mason laughs. It's quiet, almost surprised, like it escaped before he could stop it. Reed glances at him and smirks.
The hour passes fast. Faster than any class I can remember. When the guard announces five minutes to get the place back in one piece, there's a collective groan. Liam's painting is still wet. Jack has three portraits finished, Griff, Reed, and one of Liam mid-laugh that's really accurate. Miles quietly closes his sketchbook. Mason carefully slides his robin drawing in his pocket.
We clean up. Brushes rinsed, paint sealed, tables wiped.
As we file toward the door, Reed falls into step beside me. I feel myself tensing, as if he’s going to punch me. But he just says:
“Farley.”
"Hoffman," I say. “Stop calling me that, you know I hate it.”
"Farley," he repeats. I huff. Then, unexpectedly, he says, "your boyfriend’s getting better at MMA. His footwork still sucks, but the guard is improving. You’re a good teacher."
I look back at him, frowning. "Did you just say one nice thing for the first time in your life?"
"Don't let it go to your head. I'm just saying, if he makes the tournament roster, he won't embarrass you completely."
"High praise."
"The highest you'll get from me." Then he's gone, he goes to stay close to his friends in line.
