“I had no idea that you were this talented,” he says with his broad back to me.
“I’m really not,” I reply hastily, air leaking from my lungs. It’s a kneejerk reaction. I’ve always been uncomfortable accepting praise when it comes to my work.
He twists around to capture my gaze before tipping his head toward the wall. “This says differently.”
I shrug as heat engulfs my cheeks. I hate that he makes me feel so unsure of myself. Why does everything have to feel different with Brayden?
He turns fully toward me so that we’re once again facing each other before cocking his head. There’s about ten feet of space separating us, and I need every inch of that distance. “Why aren’t you majoring in art?” He points to the drawings. “This seems like a lot of talent to waste.”
My breath escapes in a slow leak as I break eye contact. When did this conversation morph into something genuine?
Instead of giving him a bullshit excuse, I tell him the truth. “My parents didn’t think it would pay the bills.” And after hearing it enough times, I believed them and gave up the dream of being an artist. “Since I’ve always been good with numbers, accounting seemed like a good fit. My father owns an accounting firm, and one of my older brothers has been working there since he graduated college. I’ll still have time for my art.” Then I tack on the refrain I’ve heard hundreds of times before. “It’s more of a hobby than a way to make a living.”
He regards me with an excruciating amount of intensity. I imagine it must be similar to the way he studied my artwork only a handful of moments ago. It’s so tempting to squirm beneath his scrutiny. “Is that what you want? To work in an office and for your art to be a hobby?”
The question is like a knife to the heart. It’s unexpectedly painful. It’s also something I would prefer not to dwell on. Especially when I’m already having doubts that accounting will make me happy in the long run.
I clear my throat, not understanding how we veered so far off topic. “What I think is that I’ll have a well-paying job waiting for me after graduation.” It’s a pat answer. One I’ve rattled off dozens of times. One I’ve tried to convince myself is the truth. It’s only now, as I inch closer to graduation, that more doubts are mushrooming up, creating uncertainty. But Brayden doesn’t need to know that.
“Hmm.” A skeptical expression settles on his face as if he’s not convinced.
My eyes narrow. I don’t need him prodding beneath the surface of our relationship. He needs to do us both a favor and stay in his lane. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” he says innocently.
Too innocently for it to be sincere.
“You made a noise,” I point out.
He presses a hand to his chest. “Oh. Am I not allowed to do that? Is that a rule or something?”
Irritation bubbles up inside me as I fold my arms across my chest. “Look, I don’t want to talk about my degree or my future plans.”
Am I being defensive and acting like a bitch?
Probably.
But I can’t seem to rein myself in. Brayden has picked up on an issue that hits a little too close to home. I haven’t spoken to my family about this. I sure as hell don’t want to talk to him.
“I didn’t say a word about it.”
“You’re judging me,” I mutter.
Oh my god, since when do I care about anyone—let alone Brayden—judging me?
He’s twisting me up inside and I don’t like it. More than that, I don’t want it. I need to work harder at keeping him at a safe distance. That’s the only way I’m going to get through this.
“Nope, not at all.” There’s a beat of silence. “You’re just really talented.” Again, he points toward the wall. “I’m surprised you couldn’t find something where you can incorporate and utilize your talent.”
His explanation has some of the stiffness draining from my shoulders. “Talent doesn’t always cut it. And it certainly doesn’t make money.”
“That’s true, but it would be a real shame to waste this. Maybe you need to explore your options while it’s still a possibility.”
His words circle viciously through my head before I pick up my sketch pad, but I push it away, refusing to dwell on it. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. “It’s getting late. We should probably get to work. I’ll need at least two hours, maybe more.”
Instead of continuing the conversation, he drops it. Brayden doesn’t know me well enough to understand what my art means to me or to realize that I’m having doubts about my chosen career. I’m in my last year of classes and majoring in accounting with a minor in fine arts. It’s a little late to change course at this point.