Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I shrug, trying to hide my disappointment about the delay in the mural decision. “I’m thinking of starting a YouTube channel—‘How to Arrange Hors d’Oeuvres Like an Artist.’ Maybe it’ll be my big break. I can make art with mushroom canapés and bacon-wrapped shrimp! Munch on Masterpieces by Maeve. Can you imagine how happy Aunt Vivian would be?” My friends know my mom’s sister wants me to come on board full-time. And then maybe run her catering company someday. She has a good business, but it’s just not my dream.
Fable gives a sympathetic smile from across the table. “Just because you haven’t heard yet about the mural doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”
She’s sweet to say that, but the writing’s on the wall. When we talked on the phone yesterday Angelina said no news is good news, but she also urged me to focus on other options, so I’m thinking that’s her agent-y way of softening the eventual blow. I ought to try harder to mask my disappointment when I’m with my friends. I don’t really want to be the downer of the group, especially when they’re all thriving in their careers. Everly’s the publicist for the Sea Dogs, recently promoted. Josie’s the most amazing digital librarian. And Fable is the lead merch designer for the Renegades, one of the city’s football teams, while also running a growing Etsy shop for her jewelry designs. Leighton’s a freelance photographer, and even though she’s the youngest of us, she’s already making some inroads with boudoir sessions, lifestyle, and sports photography. I’m the only one of us floundering.
After my mom died, the royalties from her books went to my dad, then to my brother and me, and now, ten years later, they go toward renting my shared studio space, which feels like exactly what my mother would have wanted for me.
And yet, the money won’t last forever, and soon, I might have to make some tough choices.
“It’s fine,” I say, waving away the pesky idea of a viable career. “If the YouTube thing doesn’t work out, I’ll learn how to grow money trees. I have a green thumb. How hard can it be to plant a few coins in the soil and watch them bloom into big bills?”
“Sign me up,” Leighton quips. After a chuckle, she shifts to a more serious tone. “Who is the mural job with?”
“You did one for the Noe Valley Business Association just the other month, right?” Everly puts in.
“Yes!” I say, touched Everly remembered that recent assignment. “I did a design stretching across a brick building in that neighborhood representing the small businesses in the area, from glasses shops to restaurants to toy stores. That was the lead submission in the portfolio Angelina submitted for me.”
As we chat, the server arrives with my chai latte. She sets down plates, too—the overnight oats, omelets, and pancakes. “The biggest and the best. Let me know if you need anything else,” she says.
“The chance to paint a huge coffee cup and a plate of eggs and bacon on the wall,” I offer with a bright smile.
The server shoots me a bemused look. “I’ll, um, keep that in mind.”
“Thanks,” I say, since I am not above begging. You never know who’s hiring.
Once the server heads to another table, Everly turns to me. “Is this super-secret job something like the neighborhood association one?”
I hesitate because I haven’t told them who the potential job is with. There’s a reason I’ve been vague—I don’t want to be handed anything. I don’t want them to try to intervene, and they might. It’s one thing for me to drop a mention of my art to a server—it’s another to canvas all my friends and family for a boost.
My mother was a writer, and she taught me both the value of art and the value of self-worth. “If you love what you do, then chase it with all your heart, even when it feels like chasing the hem of a cloud,” she’d said. “Chances are, it’ll feed your artist’s soul. And the artist’s soul is very, very hungry.”
Most days, my artist’s soul is a ravenous beast. I chase my dreams with running shoes on, not jumping the line like a nepo baby. I want to be good enough on my own. I want it so badly it hurts sometimes. The waiting has been dragging me down for more than a week, and if I don’t share this longing, it’ll weigh me down too.
“I’ll tell you,” I say, warning them, “but you can’t tell your guys.”
Josie lifts a hand in an oath. “Girls only.”
Everly nods solemnly. “It won’t leave this booth.”
Fable says, “Padlocker promise.”
I smile at the name. It started as a joke last fall when we promised we’d be Everly’s padlock when she was tempted by the team’s goalie, now her boyfriend. The name stuck, though, because we look out for each other.