Quickly swiping at the screen, I use the stoplight to my advantage. Instantly, the dial tone rings through the speakers. Once, twice, five times. Then, her voicemail.
“Hi! You’ve reached Evie, and yep, I must be busy. If you’re my uncle, please don’t call the police again. I highly doubt I’m missing. Patience is a practiced skill! If it’s literally anyone else calling, just give me a few hours, and I’ll get back to you. Well, not if you’re a robot scammer. Then don’t even think about leaving a voicemail?—”
Her voice cuts off, signalling the end of her allotted recording time. My mouth quirks at the familiar words.
And for the record, I called the policeonce, and she was only seventeen at the time. Not to mention in a rebellious phase that I was completely unprepared for. It was one thing to bethe uncle she’d called the first time she got drunk at a party on her fifteenth birthday, and another to be the person to find her stumbling and irate out of a downtown club underage on her seventeenth.
I went from being the cool uncle she could call when she needed to hide something from her mother to the parental figure who couldn’t ever do a single thing right with a struggling teenager in the blink of an eye.
“Call or text me back, Evie. I’ve got lunch, and before you ask, yes, I made sure they didn’t forget the extra red onions this time. See you soon,” I say, hoping she hears the voicemail in the next five minutes.
The light turns green, and I’m speeding through the streets again. It only takes me three minutes to get to the small building housing her studio. She uses the space above an art gallery and has her own parking stall in the garage beneath, along with a separate staircase that makes her feel more secure.
I’ve known the gallery owner for longer than Evie’s even been alive.
I park along the curb a few feet from the gallery doors and pay for the hour before heading up. It’s empty inside, but the jingle of the bell above the door tells whoever is working that someone’s arrived. A beat later, I’m greeted by a woman with silver-streaked hair wearing a paint-splattered smock and a pair of hot pink high-tops.
“Is Evie here?” I ask, unable to soften my tone.
Petal, though I doubt that’s her real name, cocks her head, taking me in. I’m sure the heaving chest and frantic eyes are nerve-racking for most people, let alone an old woman minding a store on her own in a quieter part of the city. Still, she doesn’t flinch or balk, just nods and gestures to the back, where the stairs leading to the studio are.
“She’s been here for quite a while, actually. If you’d asked, I would have gone up to check on her,” she says, voice frail yet still bright.
I drop my shoulders and shake my head, tightening my hold on the takeout bag. “I appreciate the offer, but she wouldn’t have appreciated that.”
“Well, of course not. She’s a grown woman, Roman. You worry far too much about her.”
“Can we skip the lecture today?” I ask heavily, glancing past her to the stairwell.
“It’s not a lecture, you stubborn man. More so concern. Your mother asked me to make sure you know when you’re overstepping with that girl.”
And there it is. The history this woman never lets me forget.
I was young when Petal and my mother met. They were instant friends, and despite my lack of contact with both my parents once I grew up and moved out, Petal’s made it her job to watch out for both me and Evie. We weren’t ever all that close when I was a kid, but she still came by every once in a while to check on my sister and me. Once it became only Evie and me, she stepped up further and offered my niece the empty space in her gallery.
From the lack of calls I’ve gotten from my mother these last couple of years, she must have been telling her that I’ve been doing an alright job here.
Keeping my tone as respectful as possible, I say, “Being concerned isn’t overstepping. I appreciate you watching out for her.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go on up.”
I pass her quickly, needing to get out of here before I lose my manners. It’s not that I don’t appreciate Petal allowing Evie to rent the space above the gallery or that her advice truly bothersme. Rather, it’s that I know deep down she’s right, and I have been holding on to my niece too tightly.
That’s not a thought I want to be having right now.
The takeout bag crinkles as I take the stairs two at a time and knock on the closed studio door. I can hear the upbeat music blasting from inside, which only convinces me further that she is okay and was just too busy to reply to my texts earlier.
I knock again before trying the handle. It turns, and I instantly scowl when I learn she didn’t lock it.
“Evie?” I call out. My voice gets drowned out in the music, so I try again a bit louder and step inside.
The studio isn’t outlandishly large, but there’s more than enough room for her here. There’s a kitchenette with a mini-fridge and coffee machine, and a bathroom that I helped paint a bright lavender colour. From the entrance, most of the space is hidden behind the wall that separates the workspace.
I slip my shoes off on the tree-shaped entrance mat and find her shoes lying in front of the rack instead of where they belong on one of the shelves. There are a pair of hot pink high heels beside them that I’ve never seen before.
Curiosity has the hair on the back of my neck standing up when I step out from behind the wall and move through the studio. It’s not until I turn past the kitchenette that I see Evie. At first, I grin at the sight of her gripping her camera in front of her and dropping down onto her knees to get a better shot. The bright lights spread throughout the space could rival the sun outside as she tilts her head and waves her hand in front of her, instructing.
I follow her fingers and stop breathing.
