Page 18 of The Promises We Make

Heglances over at me, a smile playing on his lips.I’mspeechless.Hedrove me out here just for a glimpse of the front entrance toCalArts.Histhoughtfulness has warmth spreading through me.

“Devon,”Isay, a sharp tug in my chest. “Ican’t believe you went out of your way to bring me here.”

Heclears his throat. “It’sjust the front entrance, butIwas worriedI’doverwhelm you ifIgot you in for a tour.I’mnot trying to be pushy, but it’s one of the places you were interested in when we were in high school.AndIjust wanted you to know how close it is to where we live, in case, you know…”Heshrugs.

Iput my hand on his forearm. “I’mreally glad you brought me.Itgives me something to consider.Sothank you.”Igive his arm a little squeeze, then quickly let go when the memory of the wayIogled him earlier springs into my mind.Iquickly shove it out by thinking about how my pulse had leaped whenIsaw that sign.

WouldIreally consider moving toLAand applying for art school likeIplanned seven years ago?I’dstill love to go toCalArts.Andbeing close toDevonandBeauwould be great.Thelast few days have shown me just how muchI’vemissed them.ButIstill haveDadto consider, and going somewhere likeCalArtsisn’t cheap.

Mymind is whirling, andIhuff out a breath.Noneof that matters ifIcan’t pull a good portfolio together, so getting myself twisted up thinking about it right now won’t do me any good.WhatIneed to focus on is getting my spark back and proving that art school is a real possibility for me.

Halfan hour later, we’re back home.DevonandIcarry my supplies up to the apartment and put them in my bedroom.

Devonis meetingBeauand the other guys fromCrossfireto discuss a music video they’re filming soon.It’sfor the first single off their new album.Heinvites me along, butIneed to catch up on work sinceIplayed hooky to go driving with him this morning.

Istop him before he walks out the door, wrap my arms around him, and press my cheek to his chest, breathing him in. “Thankyou.Foreverything.”

Hepulls me tighter against him, andIlook up, surprised to find his eyes closed and his brow pinched.BeforeIcan wonder about that, he’s loosened his hold and is smiling down at me with that easy grin of his.

“Noproblem,Bambi.”Hesteps back and half turns to the door. “Don’twork too hard this afternoon, okay?Takeadvantage of the sun and the pool while you’re here.”

Witha nod from me, he’s gone, andI’mleft in the big apartment by myself, suddenly a little bereft without him.Ishrug off the feeling and grab my laptop.Ishould do at least some of whatDevonrecommended, soItake it out onto the balcony and get settled.Thesun is warm on my shoulders, and my attention is continuously drawn to the horizon and the line of blue that stretches across it.

Ifight the urge to try to capture the view and spend a full hour and a half updating the guys’ calendars, prioritizing their emails, and responding to those that don’t need personal attention fromDevonorBeau.ThenIfinish up by going through their various social media platforms and commenting on tagged posts.

AfterI’mdone,Igive into temptation and head to my bedroom to break out my new supplies.ButshouldIpaint in here?There’sspace, and ifIopen the window, there’ll be plenty of air circulation to stop the oil paint fumes from becoming overwhelming.ButwhenIset the easel up to get the best aspect, the position leaves me at an awkward angle with the wall too close behind me.Andthe hardwood floor really needs to be covered.Ishould have bought a drop cloth on our trip to the art store.

SoItake the easel out to the balcony, where the view is perfect andIhave plenty of room to work.Istill don’t have a cover for the floor, butIcan clean a few splatters off the tile easily enough.Thedownside isIcan’t leave anythingIpaint out here, which means carting everything in and out, and ifBeauandDevoncome in, they’ll see whatI’mworking on.I’mtoo self-conscious about my paintings these days to let anyone see them before they’re finished.

Butthat’s a problemI’llonly have to deal with ifIactually paint.Andright now,I’mprocrastinating.

Iset the canvas up on the easel, squeeze paint onto my palette, and pick up a large, flat brush.ThenIsquint out at the horizon, look down at my paints, hover my brush over a beautiful cerulean blue, and stop.Maybeit’s the pressure, the expectation.Thatnow thatI’mhere, now thatI’veforced myself out of my comfort zone andDevonhas bought me all this stuff,Ishould immediately be back in that mental and emotional space where everything flows effortlessly from me.

Iforce myself to dip the brush in and stroke it over the canvas in one long, horizontal streak.Makingthat first mark releases some of the pressure, andIgo back for more paint.Iconcentrate on filling in the still-white voids, adding more colors to my palette, and beforeIknow it, an hour has passed.

Iwipe a bead of sweat off my forehead and step back to examine whatI’vedone.

Disappointmenthits me hard.It’sutterly lifeless.Justa flat depiction of the horizon as seen from this apartment.There’sno joy, no movement, noemotion.

Iconsider persevering, but my enthusiasm has well and truly drained away.Myskin is damp with sweat from being outside for so long, and the thought of going for a swim in that gorgeous pool upstairs is incredibly appealing.Butthere’s somethingIneed to do first.

AfterI’vetaken everything back into my room and stored my easel and canvas facing the wall so no one can see it,Isit on my bed and call my dad.Ispoke to him afterIfirst got here, but with the disappointment of my painting effort weighing on me,Ihave the urge to talk to him again.

Assoon as he picks up andIhear his gruff, familiar voice, the muscles knotting my shoulders relax, andIsmile.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. “Howare things in sunnyLA?”

“They’regood.It’sbeen great hanging out with the guys again.I’vemissed them.”

“Iknow you have.Iwish that ex of yours hadn’t been so uptight about you visiting them.”

Iwince, never comfortable talking aboutPhillipwith my dad.Henever liked him; he’d made that clear.Butapart from the occasional grumble about things likePhillip’sdiscomfort with my friendship withBeauandDevon, he never harped on it.

Andfor my part,I’venever told him how bad things got.IfIdid, he’d never forgive himself for not seeing what was going on or being more outspoken in his opposition.

“Areyou still eating well?”Iask.I’mnot sureItrust him to stick to his cardiologist-approved meal plan whenI’mnot there to police him.Mydad is a woodworker with a sweet tooth and a fondness for convenience food.Evenafter his heart attack, he had a bad habit of shutting himself in the shed in the backyard and working on various projects for hours, then coming inside, starving, only to throw a frozen meal into the microwave.I’vebeen doing my best to encourage him by helping him shop and showing him how to make simple, quick meals.

“Who’sthe parent here?OfcourseIam,” he scoffs.

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