Page 33 of Me Three
Everett laughs.
“I’m sure that’s not true. Is that what you were going for?”
“Of course. I’m doing a project on hot dogs, so this will be my main exhibit. ‘How hot dogs feel when we eat them.’”
Laughter again. I can get used to the sound and feel of it. It’s hearty and full of life and passion, and it almost makes me want to dance. Or make love. Or both at the same time.
Would that even be possible?
I try to think of the mechanics of dancing and fucking at the same time, but it’s hard considering Ev is still asking questions on the phone.
“I was going for three hands joined together, but it’s all blobby and my shading… well, let’s just say it went out for cigarettes and forgot to come back,” I say.
“You’ll get there. If it’s not working, start from the top. I always found it easier to start anew than try to fix a mess. But that’s just me. It depends how you work as an artist,” he says.
“You paint, too?” I ask him and walk back to collapse on my bed.
“Of course.”
“Anything I may have seen?”
“Sure. I broke the internet last month,” he says, and I laugh. “Most of my stuff is sold to friends and friends of friends. It makes for a nice supplementary income.”
“Yeah, I had a friend ask me to make a family portrait, but he hasn’t got around to officially booking me yet,” I say.
“Then askhim. Be a go-getter,” he says.
“I’d love to see your work.”
“Likewise, little cabbage.” I smile and look to the ceiling as my heartbeat goes haywire.
“Would-would you like me to come over later?” I ask.
“Of course. I can make us dinner. Whatever you want,” he says.
I shrug even though he can’t see me. “Surprise me.”
“Deal. Eight o’clock?”
“How about seven?” I ask.
“Why don’t you come over now and we can go grocery shopping together?” he says, and I can just about contain my screech. Ev does not need to hear me screech, yet. Or ever.
“I’m jumping in the shower now,” I tell him.
“See you soon, little cabbage,” he replies, and we hang up.
Without missing a beat, I go out to the corridor and into the bathroom to have a shower, and once I’m dressed, I go downstairs where Mom is typing away on her computer, her latest screenplay most likely, and Dad is making a cake—cheesecake if I can see the ingredients right.
“That looks good, Dad. Can’t wait to try it later,” I say.
“Me too,” Dad laughs, and his beer belly jiggles independently to the rest of his body.
His cheeks are dusted white with flour and his apron, sporting “World’s Best Dad” down the front, is smeared with chocolate. Dad can bake, but he isliterallythe messiest baker ever. At least he always cleans up after himself and doesn’t leave it for us to take care of.
“I’m going out,” I tell him and then turn to Mom to see if she heard me.
“What time are you back?”
