Pretty, Dark and Dirty

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Mason returned to the sink to get a glass of water.

All at once, my curiosity condensed to a stone in my throat.

“Dad, I’m sor—”

“I should give you a tour of the studio,” he said, cutting me off. “The sooner you’re familiar with the space, the faster you can make use of it.”

He offered me the glass he’d just filled. I took it, meeting his gaze over the rim.

All at once, a current of understanding passed between us. He wasn’t going to ask about what I’d seen or heard last night. In return, he wouldn’t mention the glass or how it wound up in my room. I could keep my dignity and my place in his home for the summer. All I had to do was commit to an unspoken truce: I saw nothing. I heard nothing. There was nothing to discuss.

As he must’ve suspected, my embarrassment over what I’d seen was rapidly eclipsing my immediate need to know the details of his late-night phone call.

Closing my eyes, I tipped the water into my mouth and swallowed.

Mason’s studio was unlike any classroom I’d ever worked in. He had all the best-quality paints and more brushes than an artist could ever use in a lifetime. He gave me a spot at his drawing table and my own easel, and permission to experiment with whatever tools and supplies sparked my interest. If I’d ever doubted the authenticity of his interest in my art, his encouragement and willingness to share his workspace killed it dead.

I parked myself in front of the window with a massive sketchpad and some charcoal and started drawing clouds. That was my favorite way to warm up. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fuck up clouds. You could only make them stormier.

“You pout your lips when you draw,” he said.

“Do I?” I asked, not the least bit self-conscious now that I was in my element.

Mason, seated in a nearby chair, had been watching me work for almost an hour in comfortable silence. He shifted, the motion making the chair squeak. “Your mom used to do the same thing. Must be genetic.”

That made me pause. “I didn’t know Mom could draw.”

“She preferred photography. You were her favorite subject. We were constantly stepping on each other’s toes. Me with my sketchpad, her with her Nikon.”

“She never told me she took photos,” I said, not that I was surprised. Every secret talent was just another piece to the mysterious puzzle that was my mother. I resumed dragging a charcoal-stained finger along the underside of a foreboding cumulonimbus.

“Your mom had a knack for capturing nature. I prefer people. All the little private rituals we perform when we think no one’s watching.”

“I know.” I met his gaze. “I’ve been following your work for years.”

His smile betrayed a twinge of sadness.

A soft buzz disrupted the quiet that had settled between us. Mason drew his phone from his pocket, thumbed at it, then frowned. “Well, shit.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Krista has the flu.” His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “This is going to set me back.”

I laid the sketchbook on the floor. “Can’t you find someone else?”

“Sure, but that would take a few days at least. I was hoping to finish the preliminary sketches this afternoon.”

An idea surfaced like a bottle in the ocean, a message borne from the deep.

“I could do it,” I said.

He took in my face, my posture, my folded legs, then shook his head.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

“It’s not like I don’t have experience,” I said. “Come on, it’ll be like old times.”