Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
His grip on my shoulders loosen. He bows his head. “I would be being disingenuous if I didn’t say I wish you’d strongly consider a career in law.” He gazes at me. “But I would be blind if I said I didn’t see your talent in art. I spoke rashly that night I visited you. It was unfair, what I said, but … some of it wasn’t untruthful.”
After a moment, I nod. “I can respect that.”
“So I still implore you to consider all of your options, son. Consider them fairly. But …” He lets go of me with a sigh, then nods. “I won’t push your hand. You’re an adult. You deserve to live your life the way you want. You have my support as well as your mother’s. Can you forgive me for …” His voice changes and his posture breaks. “… for the way I’ve been lately?”
I should weigh my answer a little longer, make him sweat it out. But I just can’t. Not today. “Yes.” Maybe my brother is still with me, wanting us to get along, wanting everything to be okay. “Yes, of course I forgive you.”
Then we come together for another embrace.
“Now you’re going to have to show me how to do this video chat thing,” says my dad as we hug, “because your mother will kill me if I don’t let her say hello. Besides, she wants to see your work.” He pulls away for a moment to get a look at me, studying me like I’m some new person. Then he smiles. “Quintin, I’m so proud.”
I feel my heart smiling.
I guess I’m a little proud of myself, too.
Soon, we’re back at my exhibit. Adrian helps my dad and I take a few pics next to each of my paintings one by one, which we then send to my mom, along with a quick video chat to say hi to her. She’s in tears within seconds, but that’s my sensitive, sweet mother in a nutshell: cries at the drop of a paintbrush.
Once we hang up with her, my dad faces me. “I think I’ll … take a look at a few of the other pieces that caught my eye before heading home. I’m not sure I ever gave art as much attention as I have tonight.”
I smile, for a fleeting moment forgetting anything bad has happened over the past few years—my brother’s death, my parents changing, the world growing colder. All feels perfect and happy with my dad, like I just got him back.
He returns my smile. “Maybe one of these weekends, I could talk you into coming home for Sunday dinner. Your mom would certainly appreciate it.”
“That sounds great, Dad. I can already smell the hot enchiladas in the oven.”
“Don’t forget the steak I almost always undercook for the fajitas,” he teases back.
“I’ve learned to like it bloody,” I joke. Then the pair of us come together for a hug so sudden, I think it startles us both.
We needed this.
And I think somewhere, somehow, Angel needed this, too, because I swear I can feel him smiling.
Then with only an implied goodbye—which feels a lot more like a “see you later”—my dad fades into the crowd, his eyes full of wonder as he looks at the art. I watch him go with a smile I can’t wipe off my face, my heart feeling full and light as air.
Soon after that, Adrian and I decide to step outside and sit on the front steps of the exhibit hall for some fresh air. Though there are people still coming and going from the building, we are pretty much alone out here in the night air, only ourselves for company.
“Reminds me of the first night we met,” I say, hugging my bouquet. “The air out here. The peace and silence.”
“Except you didn’t have a bundle of flowers in your lap,” he points out, nudging me.
I smile, hugging them tighter, then I look at him. “This was very thoughtful of you.”
“It was the least I could do to make your day just a tiny bit more special.”
“Well, it worked.” I eye him. “But what really meant the most to me was having you there at my side during the two biggest moments of my life.”
He glances at me. “Two?”
“Yep. The moment my professor recognized my talent. And the moment my dad trusted me to do what I want with my life … and invited me to Sunday dinner again.” I gaze down at the ground, struck. “Now I have to make sure I don’t choose the wrong path.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Yes,” he finally says.
I glance at him. “Any advice?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Me? Advice?” That makes him laugh. “You’re asking someone who lets the direction of the wind steer him. If it was blowing the other way, I’d be working the Hopewell Fair instead of Thalassa. Or maybe I’d be a surfing instructor. I don’t really like to surf, and I’m fucking awful at it, but you never know. We have a ton of different roles we can fulfill in life. Big ones, tiny ones. So much of life is just throwing a bottled-up wish into the ocean and seeing which shore it washes up on.”