Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“I bet they’re proud of your art, though.” His wasn’t a question; he was stating facts, and he was right.
“They are.” She smiled proudly. “My grandmama could draw her behind off. That’s my mama’s mama. Betty…” She smiled proudly as the memories of the woman she adored flooded her mind. “I think I got it from her. Some talents are hereditary. So, my mama was used to seein’ that sort of thing. My daddy always encouraged me and said, ‘Don’t believe nobody who tells you that you can’t make no money being an artist. Yes, you can. You gotta keep pushin’. Always have a way to pay your bills but keep workin’ on that dream, too.’ And that’s what I did. I had a plan.
“I traveled, rubbed shoulders with people. I started postin’ my work on social media. And before I knew it, a few celebrities started seeing my work and tagged me. I would draw and paint them… tag ’em. I stayed up sometimes past twenty-four hours, working until I dropped down to the floor from exhaustion. I was dedicated. I found me a job to get discount art supplies, one that pays my bills now that I’m a manager there, all while I do this art thing on the side. I make more money with the art gigs, but workin’ at the craft store is more stable.”
“It shouldn’t be on the side. Your art isn’t a biscuit, a scoop of mashed potatoes. It should be the entree. The main event. Anything that makes you get up in the mornin’ and keeps you up at night should be at the forefront. It should be everything. Eventually you’ll have to take off those training wheels and yell, ‘Weeeee!’”
She laughed. “I have a plan. I’m gonna get there… Trust me.”
He placed his hand on her knee, then stroked her leg up and down. It felt good. It felt right.
“I’m surprised you said you don’t have any children and never have been married before,” he said to her in a hushed voice.
“I could say the same of you, and before you speak, you already told me that wasn’t yo’ baby, so it doesn’t count.” She shrugged. “Is marriage an afterthought?”
“I figure one day I’ll get married.” He stretched his arms out and looked around.
A couple of minutes passed with just the two of them bobbing their heads to the music and sharing a laugh or two. His phone must’ve started buzzing because he took it out and looked at the screen. It was a text message. Something about his podcast scheduling. He put his phone away once again, then picked up his drink as big waves crashed against the boat. The wind had begun to pick up. As if able to read her mind, he removed his jacket and placed it along her shoulders.
“Thank you. I know it ain’t none of my business, but who were you talkin’ to on the phone earlier tonight? You workin’ on a big story or something?”
“Actually, I’m workin’ on an article about the influence of teachers over our lives,” She nodded in understanding. “That was the niece of my favorite teacher. She lives in her house now. I’m getting ready to talk to ’er. An interview of sorts.” He cleared his throat.
“You had a favorite teacher? So did I. Mr. Howard. He was my art teacher in high school.” She smiled as the pleasant memories came to mind. “What was your favorite teacher’s name?”
“Mrs. Millicent Florence. Taught history. She died quite a long time ago. I already interviewed her husband and now, I wanna interview her niece… get another perspective.”
He puffed on his cigar and out bellowed rings of smoke, twirling the glass of brandy in his hand.
She leaned back in her seat and looked him up and down.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re comin’ off as deceptive.”
“Deceptive? How?” His brows knitted. “I was on the phone with Mrs. Florence’s niece. Her name is Monica and she—”
“No, not that,” She waved her finger about as she studied his body language. “I believe that’s in fact who you were on the phone with. Let me explain somethin’ to you, baby. Whenever I question my own judgment, I end up regretting it. Not too long ago, I was dating a man who was givin’ me red flag vibes. He was hiding his tracks well, but it eventually blew up in his face. Dude had a whole girlfriend who was livin’ with him. I fucked that man in their bed, several times. Used her bathroom. Cooked on her stove and watched that woman’s TV. I don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for her because that was a violation of her home. Her castle. Her personal space.
“My gut, though, told me the whole time he was a whole bag of lies, but I pushed the feeling aside because I’ve been told a time or two that I’m always lookin’ for trouble. I’m too paranoid. I don’t give mothafuckas a chance. With him, I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but I felt like I couldn’t trust him before the shit had even hit the fan. We know for certain: I’m not your woman and you’re not my man, and it ain’t none of my business who you’re entertain’, bonin’, takin’ home and when—but I refuse to not trust my gut anymore. And my gut is tellin’ me that yeah, you were talkin’ to this teacher’s niece, but you’re plottin’ something.”