Page 27 of Deliverance

“I am.”

“That’s cool.” He slowly inclines his chin and, all of a sudden, starts talking about college.

I don’t want to be a dick, so I pretend that I’m listening while my eyes carefully scan the space. It’s large with exposed brick walls, cement floors, and dozens of folding tables littered with all sorts of materials from brushes to electronics. Even a small CD player. To my left, there’s a leather couch that’s seen better days. On the opposite side of the studio stands a whiteboard with cryptic notes. Some are drawings of flowers. Some are circles or words. Some are dates. A brass incense burner bowl and some candles are set up on a large black cube in front of the arched window.

I notice a few unfinished canvases that look similar to the ones in the gallery and I wonder if they’re pieces that didn’t make the cut or are still works in progress.

Somehow, this is exactly how I imagined Drew’s workspace. Messy, weird, spacious, and very bohemian.

Finished with the call, she appears from behind the divider and says, “Sorry, but no one who comes over goes hungry if I can help it.”

“You didn’t have to worry about me.

Drew tosses her cell on the table and raises a brow. “Who says I’m worried?”

Kristof snorts out a laugh.

She gives him a sideways glance.

He rolls his eyes.

“Okay. Now I feel really left out,” I confess, my gaze ping-ponging between the two as I attempt to make some sense of their silent exchange.

“We’re just pulling your leg.” Drew’s face relaxes as she motions at the couch. “Do you want anything to drink? Water? Red Bull? Or I have wine.”

“White, please,” Kristof drawls.

She folds all fingers but the index and middle and moves them toward her eyes, then points them at the kid. “I’m watching you, buddy.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. He seems to have a flair for the dramatics.

Drew turns back to me. “Don’t give him any alcohol. He’s eighteen and he’s not supposed to drink on the job.”

“You’re no fun, mama.” Kristof pouts, staring up at the ceiling.

“I don’t want your sister to kill me.”

Their bickering is stupidly adorable and I’ve already forgotten what was asked of me.

“Water?” Drew disappears behind the divider again.

“Water’s fine.” I feel as though I’m inconveniencing her.

Moments later, she shows up with three bottles and hands me one, then wraps a napkin around the other, screws off the lid, and gives it to Kristof. To my surprise, the substance on his palms stays fairly intact. Some does get transferred to the napkin, but the damage to his paint job is minimal.

“I’m afraid to ask what it is that you two are doing,” I probe.

“I don’t normally accept commissions,” Drew explains. “But this project sounded interesting and I have some time right now, so I figured why not?” She sits her water on the table and gestures for me to get up. “It’s a series of photos for a private club in Amsterdam. The client only wants ten pieces and two different models featured, which is going to take me less than a week.”

“This client seems very specific.”

Drew crosses the room and halts in front of the large black foam boards that are stacked against the wall. She grabs one by the sides, plucks it from the pile, and then hands it to me unceremoniously. “We’re going to build a box.”

“Any particular spot?” I ask, lifting the board off the floor. Despite the size, it’s fairly light.

“In front of the window will do.”

“Don’t forget we’ve got sushi on the way,” Kristof reminds us and I’m wondering how long the poor kid has been sitting on that uncomfortable-looking stool.

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