From behind me, Daniel asks, “Are you finishing up?”
I nod slowly while wiping my hands on a fresh rag, and though my gaze remains on my work, I reply quietly, “Yes. I believe I’m finished.”
His steps echo as he crosses the room, but the sharp intake of breath he takes as he steps up behind me has me turning in my seat. The expression on his face as he studies the piece doesn’t do much to betray his thoughts, but the way his lips are thoughtfully pursed leaves a hopeful swell in my chest.
Daniel helps me clean my utensils and pack up my totes. When we’re done, I return them to the cart and turn toward the painting one last time. I take in the colors, the shapes, and the shadows, and hope, desperately, that I’ve done my inspiration justice.
Phantom.
Screw the admissions committee. I came here today to prove to myself what I’m made of. And I did just that. I left it all on the canvas. And even though I know that Phantom will never get to see this particular painting, imagining that they might allowed me to do my best today, and for that I’m grateful.
“Thank you for coming to audition, Maeve,” Daniel says as we walk toward the building’s entrance. “I’m sure the admissions committee is waiting on tenterhooks to see your work.”
My stomach flips at the reminder that my fate is now decidedly in their hands. The hands of experts, of complete strangers. I swallow hard before replying, “It was my pleasure. Thanks for your time, and please give my thanks to the committee.”
Scratching at his beard, he smiles warmly before leaving me by the front door. Through a window, I spot Dad waiting for me in the car. He’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel like it’s a drum set while mouthing along to the words of a song only he can hear, totally jamming out. I watch him for a bit and bite my lip, hesitant.
I wish I could’ve taken a picture of my audition painting to show him, but I guess I’ll just have to settle for describing every last inch of it in excruciating detail. As I exit the building and walk toward the car, I wonder if it will annoy him or make him proud, me gushing about my art like that. But when his gaze meets mine, I get my answer. He’ll be beaming the whole way home.
And damn, if that realization doesn’t feel almost as good as painting does.
7Bug
Ichase sleep all night the evening after my audition at Lizbeth, but it evades me. Instead, I oscillate between painting and checking social media. It turns out Trey had been spot on. My most recent video has over a million views now. Restlessly, I stare at the number, but it still doesn’t feel real. Hell, the last forty-eight hours don’t feel real. More like a dream, but even my subconscious wouldn’t have gotten this creative. Which leaves only a handful of possible explanations: magic, divine intervention, or sheer dumb luck.
My eyes have disintegrated to dust in their sockets by the time the sun peeks over the horizon. With nothing left to distract myself, I abandon the half-finished painting on my easel and go through the motions of getting ready an hour early. I’m dressed in an unbuttoned flannel over a crop top, bootcut jeans, and white sneakers when I bound into the kitchen. Dad’s there, already cooking breakfast while whistling tunelessly to himself. He must not have been able to sleep either.
“Morning, Dad,” I say as I jump to sit on the granite countertop behind him.
“Good morning. Have you heard anything yet?” he asks over his shoulder as he nimbly cracks an egg into an oiled pan on the stovetop.
My response rides the coattails of a too-shallow exhale. “Not yet.”
“Waiting is the worst part,” he reassures me with a pointed, knowing look.
“I don’t know,” I mumble while picking at the chipped polish on my nails, “I think getting rejected would be worse.”
A muscle twitches beneath the skin of his clean-shaven jaw as he says, “Maeve, that school would be stupid not to recognize your talent.”
I chew on an already bleeding cuticle and avert my eyes. Dad’s known about my talent for years, but he’s never reinforced it this much before. My stomach twists uncomfortably, confused by the mixture of silent indignation and brazen pride flooding my veins. I don’t know how to respond, so I keep my lips pressed firmly together.
Dad sets a veggie omelet next to me on the counter, and when its fragrant steam engulfs me, the cords that had tightened themselves around my insides loosen just a fraction. “Let’s eat together while we wait.”
A weak smile quivers upon my lips. “Okay.”
We walk into the dining room with our plates, and chat while we eat. Mid-conversation, I realize I’ve spent more one-on-one quality time with Dad in the past twenty-four hours than I have in the last six years. Ever since Gideon and Everly were born, I’ve been lucky to get small slivers of his time and attention. So, if getting up at dawn is what it takes, I make a mental note to do it more often.
When our plates are empty, Dad makes us tea. We’re sipping from steaming mugs when my phone dings on the table next to us. The piping hot tea in my throat suddenly detours, finding my lungs and making me cough uncontrollably. We lock gazes, my eyes watering profusely as I glance toward the phone. A tense silence envelops the room.
“Dad, I can’t look,” I finally say, panicked.
“Darling—”
I cut him off, chin trembling. “No, seriously, you’re going to have to look for me.”
His lips follow the downward curve of his eyebrows. “What if it’s just Noah checking in?” he asks.
I push my phone toward him. “Then tell him we’re waiting, and I’ll call him when we know if I got in.”
