Page 89 of Break Your Fall

“Of course,” he says in a light but steady tone that makes me feel secure, yet not like an idiot for asking. “Come on.”

He gives me a mini tour as he leads me back to the studio. It’s not the one he teaches in, he informs me, but the one on the opposite end—his own pride and joy. And it’s the messiest room in the building. The little studio in a corner of my bedroom doesn’t have the luxury of lookingthispainted-in. There are dried paint streaks on the floor, places the plastic lying about have failed to protect. It crinkles under our steps and I chuckle to myself when he tells me to just kick it out of my way. Several unfinished projects adorn canvases spread out in the space, with completed projects left to dry. Some hang on the walls, and I wonder if any of them belong to Jessabelle.

We sit on the two stools he slides over, and I present to him my letters—verbally. I tell him key points about my life—mostly from the past few years. I tell him some of my favorite and least favorite things—foods, music, movies, artists. I tell him about my friends. A summary of my life that shows him just how much I love talking about myself.

But I don’t talk about my art, the details. I’d rather show him.

All I give is an introduction, a key point for him to think about. “Seems you’ve helped create two artists.”

He wants to see my work, and he seems so genuinely excited that I bounce a little in my seat.

A text from my sister interrupts us.

I know this because I peek at his phone, reading the text as he does, because I just can’t help myself.

“She lives with you?” I question.

“No, she has her own loft, but she needs me to run her the sketches she left this morning and it seems I’m late,” he says as if he hadn’t seen me peeking.Dad problems.

I hop off the stool, eager and enthused as a plea from one of his letters comes back to me.You have a sister. Jessabelle. If you can’t give me a chance, please give her one. She’s always wanted a sister.

“I can do it. Run it by.”

He beams at me. “That’s a great idea.”

We exchange numbers so he can text me the address on my way, and I hurry out the door with the sketches.

“Forget your key—” Jessabelle greets me as soon as she opens the door, the question cutting off with a similar awed smile I had at our father’s gallery. “Hey.” She straightens her glasses, then glances over my shoulder. “Where’s dad?”

There are no pretenses in the way she speaks to me. She acknowledges me like I was always here, like I’ve always fit.

You belong there.

We belong where we wanna be.

I return the smile. “Heading back home, I guess? I volunteered to bring these for you.” I hand over the sketches.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m glad you did.” She tucks the sketches under her arm. “So, what do you think of him? He seems great now, but spend more time with him, and thedadin him will quickly get on your nerves.”

I chuckle at the twinkle in her eyes. “Well, since I haven’t had a dad in eighteen years, he has some catching up to do to get to that point.”

“It won’t take long,” Jessa says so simply, I laugh.Jessa. Jessabelle.My brain can’t decide which to use.

“You prefer Jessa, right?” I ask to clarify.

“Right,” she says, then steps back, waving me inside. “Come on.”

I step into another enormous space with large industrial windows and white brick walls. Whites and blacks are the main palette with pops of color here and there. There’s no television, but a glass coffee table sits in front of a pink futon with green throw pillows. A swing hangs from the ceiling near one of the windows, like it was ripped right off the swing set at a park. Various stacks of books are placed around, trunks with blankets draped over the top, partitions marking off areas I can’t see from here, dried and shriveled up plants in a few corners that make me smile. If I owned plants, I’d probably forget and let them die, too. She has her own studio in the back with stairs leading up to what looks to be a bed.

I’m as green as her throw pillows. I would love to live in a space like this.

Glancing around more, I expect to see paintings, and I do. But they’re nothing like mine. Nothing like our father’s. Nothing like the ones hanging on the gallery and studio walls.

Jessa is into graffiti-style artwork.

My eyes grab on to the few closest to me. One shows a cat chewing on a cat toy, but in this case, the toy is a human heart and there are droplets of blood falling from its mouth. The second shows a woman’s hand with long, red fingernails clutching a lit cigarette between her index and middle finger with falling ashes, but in this case, the ashes are falling men. The third shows what looks like a skeleton ripping off its skin after a long day.

Tommy would like this one,I think with a smile.

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