Page 6 of All We Need

Being vulnerable makes my skin itch.There’ssomething unnerving about being unprotected like that; waiting to be weathered by the scrutinizing stares of unfamiliar people.Noteven my brothers see this side of me.Onlymy parents.Andeven then, it’s rare.

We’re a close family.Isee my parents often, with them onlyliving a few blocks away.Mybrothers less often.Andres, the oldest child, lives inFlorence,Italy, and oversees theEuropeanside of our family’s business.Alexis, my middle brother, is based inCaliforniaand is due to be announced as theCFOany day now.Wemake the most of video calls and always get together on the holidays.Apartfrom today.Insteadof spendingThanksgivingwith my family,I’malone in a strange town.

I also work for our family’s business,ArgirosEnterprises.Theglittering skyscraper in downtownManhattanis whereIthrive.It’srare you’ll find me working from home, so the factI’llbe working remotely while here is going to be a challenge.Iinherited my mother’s bluntness and hardheadedness, and from my dad, his unwavering work ethic.

“Oh,Alessandra…”Mymother sighs. “Givethem time.IwishIcould tell you how they’ll react or what you’ll find, butIcannot.Takehowever long you need and enjoy your time out of the city.Youdeserve a break.”

Her honesty is welcome, the last thingIwant is to be placated.

The sound of a door opening sounds through the phone andIhear my father’s deep voice as he greets my mom.

“Is that my wonderful daughter?”Hischeery question makes me smile.

“Yes, darling.Wouldyou like to say anything?”Momasks.

His response is louder, likely leaning over my mom while he hugs her hello. “Tellher thatIlove her andI’mvery proud.”

My eyes sting.

“I love you both too,”Isay slowly so my voice doesn’t crack.

Before my emotions get the better of me, my stomach gurgles.

“Mama,I’mgoing to go.Ineed to make dinner.”

“Eat, eat,” she sings, andIknow she’s shooing her hand as if standing right in front of me. “HappyThanksgiving,Alessandra.Naprosécheis.Filákia.”Takecare.Kisses.

“HappyThanksgiving.Naprosécheis.”Smiling, we smack our lips together through the phone before hanging up.

Stretching toward the ceiling,Istand from the sofa and head to the small kitchen.

Renting this apartment was risky, but it was the only place available.Therent is incredibly fair—not that money is an issue.Notwanting to speak to the landlord,MartinWillis, needlessly,Ididn’t question if he was undercharging me.

Opening up the fridge,Igroan at the sight of the bare shelves.I’dkill for the banquet my parents put together everyThanksgiving.

I really need to do a grocery run, but until thenI’llbe surviving on chips and salsa.

With my girl-dinner in tow,Imove to the window in the living room that overlooks the main street running through town.It’sbeen dark for hours and the streetlamps illuminate the fat snowflakes as they dance from the clouds.WintersinNewYorkaren’t the same.Thesnow quickly turns to gray sludge, causing havoc on traffic and sidewalks.Here, it’s whimsical.

I make a mental note to see ifIcan find a small cabin to stay in for a few days—somewhere undisturbed and off the beaten track.

Sitting on my stool,Isecure a fresh canvas on my easel and stare at it vacantly asImunch on my food.

There’s something cathartic and freeing about starting a new piece.Norules.Freeto do asIplease.

Thanks to my busy schedule,I’vehardly painted in months.Maybethe silver lining to me being here is thatI’llfind some spare hours to finally start and finish a painting.

A flash of light pulls me out of my relaxing haze as a truck rolls by.Theheadlights bathe the white-dusted street in a yellow glow.Snowflakescling to the windowpane until they slide down the glass, racing one another.

Inspiration strikes.

My hands wander toward the cobalt blue, titanium white, and lamp black.Squeezingout a generous amount of each color onto my palette, my arm moves with effortless grace thanks to muscle memory, andIslather on the first layers of paint.

The tension in my muscles eases with each stroke.Thedoubts about being here dissolve as the different shades blend and melt together until it matches the deep gray-blue clouds outside.

It’s not grisaille,but a technique known asimpasto—where layers of oil paint are applied to the canvas for a three-dimensional effect.

Despite my annoyance at meetingBooth, my lips quirk just thinking about his stupid grin and misplaced determination to pursue me.IfIwere someone else,Imight have gone along with it.He’snot my usual type, with his boyish charm and unruly hair, but there was something genuine and inviting about him.Hedefinitely wasn’tboyisheither.Hisheight dwarfed mine, and though he was clean shaven, there was something virile in his devastatingly handsome face.Allsharp lines, dark brows, and wide frame.

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