“You know what else is good for painting?” He pauses to finish gulping his mug of cereal, and I already know where he’s going. “Inspiration. Like the kind you get from a talented sculptor whose work makes you stand completely still in a crowded gallery?—”
I throw a piece of toast at his head. He catches it and takes a bite. “This is good toast,” he says. “Thanks.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
He’s right. I don’t. But that’s the problem with my cousin. He knows exactly how much he can push before it stops being funny, then he pulls back right at the edge.
Mom settles onto the stool across from us and starts eating her breakfast. The morning light catches the silver threads in her curly hair, and I notice the laugh lines deepening around her eyes. She looks tired in the soft way mothers do. Behind her, through the window, I can see the backyard sloping down toward the small woods that border the property. The trees will start preparing for fall soon.
Carter gets up to wash his mug and Mom glances at me. “So,” she says. “The showcase. Does it still feel weird to have your piece up there with everyone looking at it?”
I open my mouth to deflect, then close it again. She’s looking at me like she can see straight through whatever mask I’mputting on. It’s unnerving. It’s also the reason I tell her things I don’t tell anyone else.
“Definitely weird,” I say. “But I used too much red and I think everyone is noticing that first.”
What I don’t tell her is that I almost didn’t submit it. The idea of strangers standing in front of my painting, forming opinions about my talent, my taste, my entire inner life reduced to a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, had nearly been enough to keep the application in my drafts folder.
“I liked the red,” Carter says from the background, but I’m still annoyed with him so I pretend he didn’t speak.
“Did anyone actually say there’s too much red?” Mom asks.
Yeah, Dorien.But I’m not going to tell her that’s who said it. So I just shake my head and finish my food quickly.
Mom smiles at me from across the island. “You know what I see when I look at your work?”
“A concerning obsession with the color red?”
“I see someone who feels things so deeply she has to get them out somehow. That’s not weakness, baby. That’s strength. Most people spend their whole lives running from what they feel. You make it into something beautiful.”
My throat tightens, and I focus on the colors outside the window. I don’t say anything, and Mom sips her coffee, casual as anything, like she didn’t just reach into my rib cage and rearrange things.
That’s when Aeron appears.
He drifts into the kitchen, the old floorboards announcing his arrival with their familiar creaks. His ocean-teal eyes are heavy-lidded with sleep, his dark hair sticking up on one side, and he’s wearing the same oversized band T-shirt he’s had since sophomore year of high school, the one that’s dangerously thin from too many washes. There are already holes in it, and I’m surprised it hasn’t unraveled completely by now.
“Morning,” Mom says, glancing over her shoulder. “There are eggs if you want them. I made extra. And you can eat Carter’s.”
“Okay.” Aeron moves to the fridge. He pours himself a glass of orange juice and leans against a cabinet, staying at the periphery of our little circle.
I should say something to him. Pull him into the conversation. But Mom’s already turning back to me, her face lit up with whatever thought she just had.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you. I ran into Professor Harris yesterday, and she said she loved your painting. I bet you could ask if she’d like to purchase it to hang in her office.”
“Why? I can’t beg a teacher to buy my work.”
“You’re not begging, only conducting business.”
“But it’s not meant to be office decoration. It’s art.”
And just like that, we’re off again, me and Mom bouncing back and forth, dissecting what art means and its ultimate purpose, whether Professor Harris’s praise is genuine, whether I should email her or play it cool. Carter returns to the island and interjects occasionally with dry commentary. The conversation flows like watercolor across a damp canvas.
At some point, Aeron moves from the counter to the edge of the kitchen island. He sits on the stool at the very end, the one closest to the archway, and wraps his hands around his glass of orange juice. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes follow the conversation, moving between me, Mom, and Carter, but he doesn’t jump in.
I keep thinking he will. There’s always a pause, a breath, a moment where someone could speak. But Aeron just watches, and the moment passes. Mom’s then asking me another question and I’m answering. Aeron’s still quiet, simply sitting there.
I wish he’d talk more and contribute something. He’s got opinions about art. Strong ones, actually. Last week he told me that half the work in the student galleries was “emotionally constipated,” which is the kind of savage assessment that should be shared with the group.
