Trail mix and chocolate.
Arwyn eyes the tiny box, the kind meant for kids’ lunchboxes, and the golden bar of chocolate that’s a bit too nutty for my taste. But beggars and choosers.
The trail mix is the smarter choice. More calories, slow release, the kind of food that keeps me going.
The chocolate is that treat I need, a sliver of grace I’m desperate for, because there are so few pleasures left in the world. And I’m on my fucking period, but—like each time I’ve chosen a treat before—Samick spares it a cold look, then returns to his sketching.
He’s not impressed by chocolate.
Bet he’s a real fucking bummer in his world.
Who the fuck hates chocolate? It’s like hating animals. Weirdo territory.
My cravings turn me ravenous.
Arwyn watches—blatantly stares—as I bite into the chocolate bar, then shove almonds and raisins into my mouth.
Chocolate helps the trail mix go down.
I keep my cheek to the stony stare and watch the strokes of chalk down the thick parchment page.
Samick still draws.
He’s onto the house now. The outline of the building is done. He draws rows of windows, the slope of a roof, a porch that’s fenced.
But then, he returns to the garden.
Countless times I’ve seen him draw it.
And each time, it looks the same.
His frustration creases his brow and twists his mouth, like he can’t quite get something right.
The garden on the page overlooks a sea from the edge of a jagged, violent cliff.
Down the middle of the garden, stone pavers make a path between vegetable patches and wildflowers and a pond on the right and, on the left, nothing.
Just blank paper.
I finish the chocolate, and now I’m down to just some raisins and almonds.
I’m starving.
So full of cravings that, when I finish the mix, I’m not ashamed to admit I consider licking the wrappers and tin.
But I don’t.
I wipe my hands on the grass, watching the stillness of the chalk hover over the page.
“Sculptures.” My suggestion is a whisper—one that swerves Samick’s glacier stare to me. “And pews. Maybe a fountain?”
Strands of blond hair brush over his brow.
For a long beat, he just looks at me.
“You know, like marble statues,” I clarify, a mutter, and I gesture to the blank page. “Or stone, whatever.”
Samick turns his gaze back to the sketch.
