Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Tears leaked from his tormented eyes. With Dylan’s arm slack and the knife falling to the floor, Clay wanted to take the boy into his arms. Yet he was terrified it wasn’t what Dylan needed.
He turned to Saskia in the doorway. His ruptured heart reached out to her, and she understood his anguish, clearly felt the same herself. “Let me talk to him,” she whispered.
It was the right thing. She was so good with Dylan. She would talk him down.
Because Clay didn’t think he could live with himself if she didn’t.
Saskia sat on the only stool in the studio. She half expected Dylan to pick up the knife and slash the last painting.
“Come here,” she said, her tone gentle.
He grumbled back, “I’m not talking to anyone.”
She had to be stern with him and used a rougher, louder voice. “By God, you will talk to me. Turn around.”
He answered in a grumpy teenager’s tone. “Okaaay, man.”
She took his hands in hers. He was a tall young man, but she had a feeling he would grow even taller. He was thin, too, the bones of his wrists standing out. He wasn’t yet eighteen, and he would grow into his body.
Just as he would grow into his talent.
When he didn’t pull away, she said, “Your work is fantastic, no matter what anyone else says. They’re jealous. They see genius, and they can’t handle it. You’re so young, and your work will get even better. You’ll find your own style.” She squeezed his fingers, and when he didn’t squeeze back, she kept talking. “Sometimes what we make isn’t perfect in other people’s eyes. But if you want to be an artist, you need to have a thick skin. Like a cockroach’s carapace.”
Dylan glanced at the door, at Clay who still stood in her periphery, and said with the stubbornness of youth, “No, Clay said he would take care of me.”
She shook her head. “Clay is a wonderful human being and an amazing mentor. He wasn’t wrong in telling you to put your real, brilliant, heartfelt work out into the world.” She paused to let that thought sink in. “But you’re a little ahead of the curve. People didn’t get that they had to see what was in your painting. That it could be a dragonfly or a butterfly or a flying cockroach. Or whatever they needed to see. Their minds were closed.”
She thought of Gareth’s self-portrait, knowing he’d been through the same thing. People hadn’t understood. So he’d stopped painting. She wouldn’t let Dylan do that.
“Until the rest of the world catches up with you, Dylan, it’ll be a rough road.” She had to be real with him, couldn’t spoon-feed him tender words. If she did, he might never make it. “This is just how it is. You have to hear what they say and ignore it. You have to not care.” Just like she hadn’t cared what her parents said. “Not everybody will see your brilliance. Not everyone sees San Holo’s brilliance either.”
He snorted. Here was the moment when she wished she could tell him. She hated lying to Clay, but it broke her heart not to let San Holo speak to Dylan. The way he felt right now, she was afraid he wouldn’t believe her any other way. But she had to test him. “Do you think you can hack it?”
He stared at the floor. Then his gaze flashed like fire over the ruins of his art.
She prompted him. “What’s your answer?”
Finally, his shoes scuffing the floor, he mumbled, “I can hack it.”
It was a start. He might hug himself when he fell asleep tonight, maybe even shed an ocean of tears when no one could see. But this was a start.
She didn’t let go of his hand. “I know you can. I just wanted to hear you say it.” She pointed at the destruction. “You can redo your work. Or you can paint new stuff that’s even better. But trashing everything isn’t how you want to handle this kind of thing in the future, right? Destroying what’s good because you feel bad?”
Dylan took another long moment to answer. “Yeah. You’re right.” Finally—thank God—he gave a half-hearted smile. “Some of my stuff is actually kinda good, right?”
She held his hand tight. “Your art is amazing.” She pointed at the one painting he hadn’t destroyed. “Your cockroach really did fly, no matter what anyone else says.”
She smiled, then glanced at Clay standing in the doorway, his face impassive, immovable, unreadable. He left Dylan’s studio without another word.
Clay bounded up the stairs to his loft, his guts roiling.
How could Saskia think that Dylan had to put up with such cruel criticism from the jerks who’d trashed him? He didn’t understand her.
In the flat, he threw himself into his computer chair, brought the monitors to life, called up the internet, and began searching all the online comments.