Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Not that I care about his opinion or even if he knows I’m showing his daughter my art.
I open my sketch pad to the first page, a few random objects drawn when I was back at home, and hand it to her.
“They’re just ideas. Silly little sketches, whatever comes to mind to help spark bigger projects,” I say. “It’s a lot of practice. That’s why it looks like a jumbled mess.”
One page is just several sets of hands, reaching around, drawn with as much detail as I could manage. Another has eyes, noses, ears. All a bit random, almost resembling an abstract art scene.
Then come the sketches of my neighbor’s cute dog, a hyper little black dachshund, and a chubby grey tabby cat I sometimes see around, lounging on old brick walls like he owns them.
Random objects, too. A soda can tilted on its side with an interesting dent in the middle. Most of them are pencil, but I have a few in charcoal, heavily shadowed.
A slow, shadowy sunrise over Casco Bay in basic watercolor. The same sunrise in acrylics.
Most artists specialize in one medium, but I experiment until I find what feels like magic. Every scene, every subject is different.
“So cool. I love that day by day of the banana you did. Now that’s dedication, keeping it until it went black.” Kit laughs, tracing each one with her nail. “So you do this all the time?”
“Yeah. It’s how I like to de-stress.”
She turns the page.
There’s my dad, small and exaggerated, his face puffed up in cartoony rage. Not knowing who he is, Kit passes over him without any questions. Close call.
There’s treating her like an adult, and there’s trauma-dumping.
She pages toward the back and stops when she sees tinman Holden.
Oh crap. How could I forget about that one?
Her little eyes widen, dark desert sands just like her father’s. I stare at my little caricature of Holden in horror, dizzy from the rush of blood to my head.
If she calls me out—
Oof.
But maybe she won’t. She’s only ten and it’s not super-duper obvious… is it?
The second she starts laughing, my face burns.
I pry the sketch pad from her hands with a pained smile, knowing I’m just making this worse.
Now I look guilty, too. Awesome.
She mimes zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key, oddly unbothered.
That makes me wonder if this happens more often than I think. Has she seen other women indulging the dumbest fantasies about Holden Verity?
I don’t have time to wonder, to suffocate in the awkward silence for long. Holden calls out, asking for a hand with setting the table.
Kit jumps up and races off before I can move.
Right. Their routine.
Meals are sacrosanct.
“Plates,” Holden says, passing Kit a stack. “Come back for the forks and knives.”
“I’ve got it, Dad,” she says.
I walk to the edge of the kitchen and watch them. The way he swings into dad mode whenever she comes close, his eyes softly tracking her movements.
He’s a good father, even if he’s defective when it comes to having fun.
I’ve known it for a while, I think, but seeing it up close and personal makes my heart lurch. It’s almost painful, the relief I feel seeing this little girl get what I never had.
Also, I didn’t know I was into dads until very recently.
I can’t decide if it’s predictable or twisted that I get off on good parenting. Daddy issues absolutely mess with your head.
But there’s no denying the way I’m drawn to him now when he’s with her.
Laughing off her friendly jabs with ease, teasing her gently, a second love language you only learn with family.
I had it once with my grandfather. The thought breaks me.
Holden looks up and notices me moping around as he’s checking the stove.
“Care to get busy? The more hands on deck, the sooner we eat.”
“Nobody gets his food for free!” Kit yells, her face shining.
“Nope. Just the freeloading cats,” he mutters.
Kit laughs.
“You guys have cats?” I don’t know why that surprises me. Another thing I actually can’t imagine, this buttoned-down brawler with a purring furball curled on his lap.
“Grandma does,” he says, slipping back to Kit-speak. “My parents love their cats. Most pampered little beasts in all of Portland.”
I grin.
“Yeah, I’m basically third on their list of favorites after Whisk and Masher,” Kit says, mock-seriously. “Uh, sorry, Dad. You’re fourth place.”
“No need to apologize when it’s true. My old man likes watching football with someone who won’t get on his case about sports betting. The betting apps are eating social security checks alive these days.”
“Even when they steal fries off his plate! You literally said they love the cats more than they love you.”
Holden gives this big, dramatic-ass shrug that makes me lose it. They’re so quirky yet normal and I love it.
After a few days of this banter, will I see the tinman anymore?