Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Grace laughs in a way that’s real and unguarded, and I let my pencil move, following light and angles and instinct. I’m following her.
Grace is good with the kids. They orbit her like she’s magnetic with her no-nonsense approach and calm clarity that makes the space around her feel safe. Even Eli, who guards her hair like it contains nesting endangered species, lets Grace comb and braid it without a single protest. No tears. No flinching. It’s... emotional art.
“Did you grow up around kids?” I ask, keeping my eyes down.
Grace glances at me, still combing. “My mom is a foster mother. Our house was always full.”
Makes sense. There’s a practiced calm to the way she approaches their constant questions and demands. She finishes with a twist of the band around her wrist. “Do you draw for work?”
“No.”
“For pleasure?”
I shrug. “I draw to see clearer.”
She lets my comment float in the air between us, like a feather that hasn’t decided whether to soar in an updraft or fall ungracefully to the dirt. Then she glances down at Matty’s picture, which is an impossible mix of unicorn and toaster, and praises it like it’s hanging in a gallery. Then, she starts her own sideways sketch.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks.
“Seventeen years.”
She nods, letting the pencil scratch shapes onto the paper in front of Matty. “Did you ever want to leave?”
That’s not the question I expected her to ask next. In the past, people wanted to know the circumstances that brought us to live with our grandparents and what that was like. Trauma probing. Instead of digging around about the car wreck that stole all our living parents, Grace focuses on how I feel about still being here after all these years.
“I’ve thought about it.”
“What would you be doing if you weren’t here?”
“I don’t know.”
That’s always been my problem. I can’t imagine a life without my brothers and cousins and their kids, where I’m stepping out on my own. What would that even look like? My nana used to tell me that the world is my oyster, but I’ve never even seen the sea or tasted shellfish. The world outside these fences feels big and strange. I pause my sketching.
She’s trying to draw me with questions.
“You taking notes in your head?” I ask, finally looking up.
Her eyes meet mine. Open. Warm. Clever.
“Always.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “I think you’re dangerous with or without a notebook.”
She stands, brushes off her jeans, and crosses the room. I sit up too fast, catching the shift in her intention a beat too late.
She’s at my shoulder before I can slide the sketchpad shut, resting next to me on one knee. My hand moves to cover what I’ve drawn, but she catches my wrist, gently peeling back my fingers to uncover more than a sketch.
“That’s me,” she whispers.
“Yeah.” My cheeks feel warm. The portrait reflects my attraction to her, as much as her beauty.
She looks down at the page, and it feels like she’s seeing more than just the art.
Her gaze drops to my forearm and the faded script.
“What’s the tattoo about?”
I follow her eyes. “Lyrics,” I say. “Old ones.”
She nods but doesn’t ask what they represent to me. Maybe she’ll assume they’re simply lyrics from a band my mother loved, and not the most important nugget of wisdom she passed to me before she died. She glances back at the drawing. “You made me look kind.”
“I draw what I see.”
She lingers, her hand still near mine. The kids are noisier now. Junie’s crying over a lost toy, and Matty’s laughing too loud, but we’re both distracted and still. I can’t take my eyes off her.
She taps her finger gently beside the corner of the page. “Do you think you see the truth?”
I’ve never doubted that I do. The truth rests in the moments when people let their masks slip. “I try,” I say, and before I can think about it, I reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s a small gesture. Barely a touch. But it lands like thunder in the quiet between us.
Her lips part like she might say something, but she doesn’t.
Grace looks at me, and for a beat, I get lost in her eyes. They’re hazel, flecked with gold, like the sun hit dried leaves and made something new. They seem deeper now than they did when she walked in. They’d be complicated to paint, and I like complicated.
My heart beats erratically as she scans my face, searching for something.
When she finally turns away to rejoin the chaos, I let out a long breath that must have been trapped in my chest by anticipation. I don’t feel like drawing anymore, so I stare at the page, finding my sketch so much less impressive than the real thing.