“No problem. If we miss the first movie, I won’t mind. It’s not really something I care about,” she says, coming around to sit on the couch that butts against the end of my bed and extends just into our small kitchen.

“You’re drawing him again.” Charleigh’s words are quiet, as though she only intended to think the words.

I stand from my stool and clear my throat before flipping the cover of my large sketch book closed. “No, these are old, actually. I was just working on some shading techniques with colors. You know, since I usually stick to black and white.” My answer is only a partial truth. I truly found the unfinished sketch when I was looking for something to motivate me. You often hear about writer’s block in the art world. What you don’t hear about very often is that artists who sculpt, paint, draw, and create, also face these same empty stretches where nothing holds our attention, or seems adequate nor inspiring. I’ve been facing this stretch of black for several weeks—since I met him at that party in July. Today I saw an old sketch of his eyes, the shadow of his brow, and the slight bridge in his nose, and all I could see was him as I put my charcoal to the paper. It was his hands that I was working on when Charleigh arrived. I am amazed at the details I can remember about him when I can’t remember something as important as his name. Nonetheless, some of these details seem more significant. I can recall the line of his jaw, the way his hands were stained from working outdoors, his lips that curved into an uneven smile, and the scar that carved a long path up his forearm. Yet even those details pale in comparison to what I can remember about how he made me feel. I have stored to memory his warm breaths against my cheeks and the solidity of his muscles as he flexed while inside of me, and the exquisite way he seemed to know exactly what I wanted and needed without me ever giving direction.

A heat that has been less familiar as of late with me trying to forget about him makes my body tingle and my face flush as I face my closet and pull out a clean shirt to exchange the old sweatshirt I threw on when I got home. Artists have two wardrobes: the one we wear to work in, and the rest of our clothes. It doesn’t matter how careful I am while I work; charcoal dust always gets on me, and paint is worse. I hate having to worry about it. That’s why I always change while I’m working and bring extra clothes to change into before I leave school to watch Mercedes.

“We could bring it up to Kenzie again? Maybe she’ll think of someone new to ask.”

“I’m not asking her again. We’ve been down that road several times. Do you know how embarrassing it is to ask for the name of the guy I slept with at a party? Not only that, but now I sound like I am completely hung up on him because it’s been over three months! There’s no way, Charleigh. I’m over it. I was just sketching. It’s no big deal.”

“Maybe—”

“Charleigh, no. Don’t make me sing. You know I will.”

“You’re going to do that anyway.”

“And you love it.”

“No I don’t, because you don’t actually sing the words. You just say them. And I now have this awful habit of turning other people’s words into songs. It’s terrible!”

A small laugh has Charleigh standing with her arm raised, ready to strike at me. “It’s not funny! Stop laughing!”

“I’m teaching you American music.”

“We have American music in England.”

“American culture, then.”

“That isn’t American culture, it’s Lauren culture,” Charleigh objects as she follows me to the door.

“Same difference.”

“No, you’re crazy.”

I open my mouth to say words that will turn her words into another song.

“Lauren!” Charleigh groans, following me down the stairs. “Stop, or I will ask Kenzie.”

I stop and turn to flash her a smile before I start humming the tune.

“COME ON.”

“What?” Mercedes asks, looking up from the pile of toys she’s been making a valiant effort to shrink.

I stand up from where I’ve been sorting small bolts and screws from across the living room into buckets that I found out in the garage, and look at Mercedes. Over the past week we’ve barely spoken, but she’s slowly become less and less despondent about the idea of cleaning and has started to join in my efforts. By Halloween we might be able to see the floor. “I think we need a break today.”

“What does that mean?”

“Let’s go somewhere. Get some fresh air before it’s too cold to go outside.”

“It’s raining.”

“You won’t melt.”

Mercedes doesn’t bother with a retaliation; she simply rolls her eyes upward and stares at me through her lashes. “Fine, but we’re staying inside.”

“Come on, I’ll take you to the donut shop my friend works at. You’ll fall in love.”

“Donuts?” I notice the glint in her eye and the softening of her jaw as she repeats the word.

“Grab your coat.”

“I don’t understand how you don’t have a car.” Mercedes’ tone is back to being annoyed as we trudge down the long drive.

“I live in the city. There’s not much use for one.”

“But what do you do when you go grocery shopping?”

I glance over at her and watch her dodge a large puddle that has become a constant on the road. “I bring a few bags with me.”

Her eyes meet mine as we continue. “Are you poor?”

A small smile rounds my lips. “I’m twenty-two. Of course I’m poor.”

“So you can’t afford a car?”

“I probably could afford a car, but with the additional costs that come with it and parking it downtown, I’d rather spend my money on things I need and enjoy.”

“How poor are you?” I meet her eyes once again and see worry cross her small features. “It’s okay that I ask, right? I mean … I’m not saying anything bad, am I?”

I shake my head and shove my hands into the pocket of my sweatshirt as I smile at her with assurance. “I don’t mind, but some people probably wouldn’t appreciate the question.” I kick a small rock with the toe of my shoe and watch as it sails a few feet in front of us and rolls to the side of the road. “My dad owns a cattle ranch, so money has always been kind of tight. Farming has changed a lot over the years.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a lot of competition now. People like my dad who own their own farms are being forced to lower their prices because there are so many commercially owned farms now. It makes things really hard for the smaller guys.”

“Do you want to own a farm someday?”

I shake my head and turn my face skyward, allowing a few cold drops to splash across my cheeks and forehead. “No I don’t.”

“What do you want to be?”

My hand slides up to readjust the hood of my sweatshirt and then falls back into my pocket as Mercedes and I skirt around another large puddle. “I want to do something with art. That’s what I’m going to school for.”

“What kind of art?”

“Ideally”—I look over to Mercedes, catching the way her attention is rapt for the first time, truly interested in my words—“I would like to become an independent artist and sell my work to galleries.”

“Is that hard to do?”

My eyebrows rise and my chin tilts as her question brings forth memories of my dad and the countless times I’ve heard him tell me that art is a hobby, not a career.

“It’s difficult to break into the circle.”

“So what are you going to do if you fail?”

The word fail has the temperature of the air lowering as it coats my throat. “I guess we’ll see.” I don’t chance looking over at her when she doesn’t respond. Regardless of her expression, I am pretty certain I don’t want to see it.

“Our bus will be here in just a few minutes,” I say, tracing the time schedule on the wall of the small enclosure.

“So you ride this every day?”