Page 18 of Dravin
How did I even get from despising this man to letting my brain go crazy like this?
Right. His t-shirt, the way he pinned me to the wall, his ferocious energy and aura overwhelming all my already frustrated senses and then this masterpiece showcasing of his whole body slicked up sun kissed out here.
“And while you’re doing that, you can tell me something about my brother.”
He frowns, that hard crease cutting through his brow. I have the craziest urge to smooth it away. As an artist, of course. “Most of what I know of Marcus has to do with things I can’t talk about.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“There are reasons that people don’t talk about what they’ve seen. It’s just something that shouldn’t be done.”
“I’m sure you could tell me things about Marcus that have nothing to do with that. You were like brothers. You don’t get that way with someone just because you’re training with them or going into dangerous situations.”
What would I know about it? Marcus was notoriously evasive about even the smallest details. He wanted to protect us, but maybe he was trying to protect himself too. It makes it worse than ever that I refused to know him when he needed me most.
He was still the same person who sent most of his money home every single month. The same brother who before he ever left or graduated worked two jobs to help out. Before he was old enough to do that, he made a game out of collecting scrap metal and cans and bottles—anything that we could do to make a little bit extra. At the end of the month, when the money was all gone and we’d have to go to food banks, he’d make it seem like an adventure.
I wish I had taken the time to look for that version of my brother when he returned as someone else. Surely, there was still goodness in there.
I don’t realize that I’ve said that last bit out loud until Dravin’s face changes. The whole thing softens. “I was out two years before Marcus. I don’t know what happened during that time. It might have been a slow process. It sneaks up on you and changes you without you even knowing. I can’t tell you why he came back the way he did, but I can promise that he never planned it to be that way, and he never would have wanted you anywhere near that life.”
My cheeks are pinched and itchy. I have no idea why until I lift my hands and my fingertips come away soaked.
“Maybe I’m the one who should tell you stories while I attempt to paint,” I snort, going for self-depreciating, but my voice is thick and nasally, clogged with tears.
Something dark shadows Dravin’s face. He purposely turns around. “Would that help you paint again?”
A jolt of something completely foreign stabs me in the chest. “I don’t know.” Maybe nothing can. The thought would have been terrifying a year ago, to lose that part of me that was such a huge piece, bordering on comprising almost my entire life, but now it’s alarming just how much it doesn’t frighten me. It seems so low on the list of priorities, after losing my mom, Marcus, and myself.
“I don’t know what will help, but Ineedto paint again.” I should be quiet. I don’t know why my mouth won’t cooperate. “Marcus paid for me to go to school all those years. He had money he could have used for himself, but he spent it on me instead. He made my dreams possible. It would be a huge waste. It’s already a huge waste.”
Somehow sensing that what I need is space and quiet, Dravin walks over to the mower. He flips it on its side and starts picking out massive clumps of grass with his bare hands like there isn’t a blade under there sharp enough to cut one of them off.
“It made him happy to know that you were happy. Even if you never painted again, it wouldn’t be a waste.”
My chest swells with emotion so huge, I’m afraid it’s going to crack me in half. “I want to paint the Greek gods ina way they’ve never been done.” My mouth keeps running, this time giving away secrets I’ve never shared with anyone else.
Dravin doesn’t even pause. He keeps chucking out vibrant green lumps, the fragrance of freshly cut grass assailing me with every movement. It’s delicious. Earthy. It reminds me of how he usually smells, like he’s been walking in a moss-covered forest.
“That’s a tall order.” A few more clumps of grass go flying. He stays crouched down, muscles in his back rippling as he works, his already naturally earthy scent probably combining with all that grass in a delicious, intoxicating—
Stop it right the hell now.
“Given how much artwork including statues already exist.”
“Yes. I suppose so. I don’t really know how it would work.”
“Marcus was obsessed too.”
I freeze, hungry for anything he has to tell me about my brother, even if it’s something I already know.
“You were going by Calliope in Orlando, even though your ID said something else.”
I have no idea how he knows that, but he’s near level omnipotent, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Your mom loved the myths. That’s what Marcus said. Most kids got fairy tales, but you got gods and goddess and history lessons.”
“Yes. That’s why I wanted to be an artist. Ever since I was a little girl, I could see those stories coming to life in my mind.”
