“It’s all mydepths,” I grouse.
“Very depths. Much emotional,” he concurs.
So depth. Very emotional. That’s me. Iverson Swallow, emotional S.C.U.B.A.
I sigh.
Then, like any smart man would, I shove an extra-large chunk of chocolate chip cookie dough into my mouth, and kick my brother under the table as he tries to make his final block move.
He loses his level, and I don’t necessarily feel better, but I don’t feelworse, either, and that’s just the sort of morale I’m willing to take today.
Chapter Fifteen
?
Maple
Cell phones are, without a doubt, the worst invention of this century or any other.
“I’mbusy,” I grumble, valiantly ignoring theping, ping, pingof the infernal device. “Doesn’t anyone care that I’m busy? Doesn’t anyone have anything better to do than bother me?” Nevermind that I’m not actually that busy. I’m bothered enough to make up for it.
Ping, my phone taunts.
I mean, sure, I’m just lying here in bed, staring at the ceiling, but that is undoubtedly a worthwhile endeavor. Before this, I was standing by the window, staring at a canvas. Canvas staring being, of course, a widely accepted form of busyness. What then, a lady might ask, is the difference between staring at one material versus another? I can be disgusted with my lack of artistic abilities here just as surely as I can there.
“Flagging painting,” I mutter, rolling to my stomach. “Flagging ceiling. Flagging wedding.”
Ping.
“Flagging,flaggingphone.”
I should probably look at it.
There could be an emergency.
In which case they should call emergency services, not Maple Valor, Girl Incapable of Painting a Scene Correctly.
There could be anemotionalemergency…
Ugh.
Ugh.
“Flaggingfeelings,” I scorn. They’re what have me in this position in the first place.
No, what has me in this position is the painting thatstilldoesn’t look right. Possibly because every time I look at it, I’m reminded of all thefeelingsruining my life right now.
“Too many feelings, not enough thinkings,” I huff into a pristinely white pillow.
What if the emotional emergency is Iverson finding the glaringly obvious answer to my question?
I perk up. An answer to my question is an answer to my staring is an answer to my art problems.
I roll the bottom of my body off the bed and lurch to standing, then go in search of my phone. It should be…
Aha. Yes. Right where I left it—tucked between a recently acquired can of gold dust spray paint and a stack of dresses that desperately need laundered.
The first several notifications are sadly not the answer to my every problem. They’re just my annoying little brother being an annoying little brother, starting with a request for a two-player phone game match. I wrinkle my nose as I thumb through his messages.
