“Business?”
My neck cracks to the side. I’m so exhausted having to explain this. “It’s not just my father’s idea, I believe it’s a good move, too—”
“It’s a brilliant move.”
That stalls all train of thought. “Excuse me?”
Hunter grabs a stool and sits across from me, and this rattles me more than him standing over me like a kid called into the principal’s office. It’s like he values me as an equal.
“This is where most artists run into problems—the making money part. We can paint anything we want, anytime we want, but it changes when we attempt to make money. Art is art and will always be art, but I also like eating. You, Echo—” he leans forward and his leg brushes mine “—are a genius for thinking ahead.”
Mouth completely open. “What?”
“When does college orientation start?”
“Two weeks.”
“Where are you studying?”
“The University of Louisville.”
He blanches like he tasted sour wine. I know, I know. Not the Mecca of art, but they have a great program. He taps his finger to his face in a persistent pattern as he assesses me in this slow, agonizing way that makes me self-conscious. I’m clothed, right?
His hand lands on my knee, and my body goes rigid under his touch. “I’m going to work on this, but in the meantime, you need to get the painting of Aires in decent shape for the showing.”
Hunter hops off the stool and is across the room before I can process anything that happened. He touched me. He’s offering me the world. He’s changing the game. Forget that...he touched me.
“Wait!”
Hunter glances at me over his shoulder. “What?”
What? “Really? That’s all you have to say. You offered me the chance of a lifetime, and I may or may not have accepted it, and you tell me you’re going to work on something?”
“That sums it up.”
Because I can’t control it, I smash my foot to the floor like a toddler. “Am I studying under you now?”
“That’s up to you, but what I’ll work on is that business class angle.”
I throw my hands out now, more confused.
“Only worry about that painting. We’ll discuss the details of you studying under me later.” Ending the conversation, Hunter waves his hand in the air as a goodbye then disappears down the stairs.
I release a long breath, and my palm scrubs the spot on my knee where his hand briefly made contact as if that will erase the sensation of someone other than Noah touching me. Going two years with hardly any physical contact leaves me uneasy when someone does offer such an intimate gesture. It’s especially weird when it’s from someone like Hunter.
My eyes fall to the key on the easel, and a flash of guilt hurts my soul. How do I explain this to Noah and even better, how can I explain it when I’m not sure which road I desire?
Noah
Beth sunbathes on the concrete walk next to the entrance of the pool. She’s soaking up the last remaining light of the evening in the two-piece Echo lent her. I sit on the curb and alternate between watching Isaiah tune up Echo’s car and keeping an eye on Beth. She has a habit of attracting trouble.
“What’s going on at home with her?” I ask Isaiah.
Isaiah pulls his head out from under the hood long enough to glance at Beth and switch tools. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead—the only hint that the day’s been warm. “Trent’s selling.”
Trent: Beth’s mom’s sad excuse for a boyfriend. “He’s always selling.”
Isaiah shoots me a look that raises the hair on the back of my neck. “He hasn’t sold this shit before.”
Fuck. “Beth doesn’t know?”
“If she did, she wouldn’t be here.” Isaiah yanks on something with the tool. “Do you ever feel like we’re in a PlayStation war game, man? Like someone has set the clock, and the rest of the world’s counting down the last seconds of this level yet we don’t have a clue everything is about to go to hell?”
Right now and every damn day since my parents died. “Yeah.”
Isaiah assesses Beth again. “I don’t know how to save her. Not when she’s so damned determined to redeem someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”
He’s referring to Beth’s constant need to protect her mother, but the dark irony of his statement nags at me. I should tell him that Beth doesn’t want to be saved any more than her mother does, but it’d fall on deaf ears. Just as if he said the same words to her.
Possibly as if I said the same to Echo about her mom, or if Echo said the same to me about my mother’s family. Each one of us is screwed in the head.