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I look past him, toward the hard blue line where the ocean cuts the sky.

“It’s just… I was looking forward to getting away from all of that.”

“Which all of that?”

“Just… all of it.”

“The mysterious son stuff?”

I bristle before I can stop myself. Don notices because Don notices everything that annoys me.

He leans back. “You can’t flinch every time someone mentions the kid, especially if you’re roomies now.”

“Again, he is not a kid. And we have our own space.”

Don softens. “It sounds like you both want the same thing. Leave him alone. Let him leave you alone. Maybe some quiet proximity will do you both good.”

I give him a look.

“I’m serious.” He sets his cup down. “You need to learn how to have this person in your life.”

I grip the coffee cup harder. Clint is already in my life in a way Don can’t know.

“I just want to get back to myself, whatever that is,” I say. “I don’t need reminders of the mess back home.”

“Then do that.” Don points toward the hill. “Breathe in the sea breeze. Paint something moody and amazing. Reclaim your tragic little artist era.”

I laugh despite myself.

Don smiles. “There. Progress.”

“It doesn’t feel like progress.”

“It never does while it’s happening.” He picks up his coffee again. “And don’t let the camboy distract you.”

I look down into my cup.

Too late.

The studio smells forgotten. Unused. I’ve spent the day thinking about opening this door.

I stand in the doorway for a full minute before I go in, bag of fresh paints and brushes in hand.

One wide window looks out toward the slope of the hill and the blue suggestion of ocean beyond. The first thing I do is open it.

Then, I unlock the closet. Inside are canvases, brushes, a wooden box of tubes gone stiff at the edges, and an easel I had shipped down here years ago when I still believed I might do this for the long haul.

I pull everything out and set a canvas on the easel.

“Simple,” I say.

Doesn’t have to be good. Doesn’t have to prove anything other than paint can still transfer from brush to cloth under the guidance of my wrist.

I sketch one line.

It’s wrong.

I sketch another.