Page 79 of Partnering with the Artist

“I-I’m sorry,” I croak. “How much did you say she read you?”

Maelin whispers, “Most…of it. I took out the page with the more personal details, like medical history.” Face red, she glances at me. “But Morana and I put Mom and Dad on speakerphone and went through the rest together.”

Oh.

Okay.

Lovely.

It’s not that it was meant to be private, exactly. Even my medical history is fairly general. Had appendicitis at twelve. Big deal. But. Well. I wasn’t expecting this. They’ve already seen my answers to the biggest questions I could think of, and they haven’t turned me away yet?

“The food’s getting cold,” Taylor says, tapping the place setting at the other end of the table. “Sit, Zakery. This is your spot. It’s your favorite color.”

My spot…has a green plate and matching cup. I glance toward the other empty spot and find pink. Maelin’s.

Switching to hold my right hand with her left, she heads toward her seat. “It’s a good thing you’re ambidextrous,” she says as we settle in.

And I could not agree more.

Chapter 29

?

Let’s go out with a bang.

Maelin

Thunder shakes the house while I realize that it’s actually quite difficult to eat a taco one handed, regardless of whether or not I have my dominant hand. Zakery, prince that he is, does not appear to possess this problem. But I, I do. I have showered the floor beneath me in olives, and I only managed to get about two bites in my mouth before beans slapped into my plate, narrowly missing christening my dress.

It’s worth it, though. Zakery’s eased some, and he’s almost actually smiled twice. Both times were because I dropped my food. But I’ll take it.

The tug of his mouth as he fought down a laugh—probably thinking he shouldn’t laugh at me in front of my parents (who do more laughing at me than anyone else in the world)—has been everything.

“It’s incredible that you just have all these ideas for drawings and stories,” Dad’s saying, having made a salad out of taco ingredients on his plate. He stabs some lettuce. “Your artwork is beautiful.”

“Mm.” Mom nods, finishing her bite of soft taco. “Stunning. We ordered your books. They’re just gorgeous. We were hoping if it’s not too forward, you might sign them before you head back home.”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” Zakery says, eyes wide. “You…you really like them?”

“Your scenery is breathtaking. Isn’t landscape hard for mostartists?” Dad asks.

“Hands also,” Mom interjects. “Not a single one of your hands made my skin crawl. They all looked like people hands.”

Wow, Mom. Compliment of the ages right there. Stuffing my giggle down, I forfeit trying to eat my taco like a taco and scoop some veggies atop my meat and beans before putting the spoonful in my mouth.

As though he’s been blessed with kindnesses beyond his ken, Zakery says, “T-thank you. That…” He swallows, braces himself. “…means a lot to me.”

The day moves forward, lightning crashing across the sky. Zakery and I help clear the table and do the dishes before we retire to the living room. Despite my best efforts, Dad drags out the old family album, plops it on Zakery’s lap, then falls into the couch beside him.

My boyfriend very carefully opens the thing while I cower behind a pillow next to him. Upon seeing Morana and my obligatory bath photo, he declares, “Oh great heavens,” and jolts his face away.

My parents, obviously, find this to be unparalleled entertainment. So they press him forward, into the foray ofbaby pictures.

Zakery’s poor cheeks have never been so red. He has never babbled so incoherently as when he has pointed out my itty-bitty baby hands and said, “Small,” while searching my eyes for solidarity.

Yeah, bud.

V small.

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