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“It wasn’t enough to make our rent payment or anything.” Dean dumps the chopped potatoes into the boiling water without me even having to ask.
“So? Do you know how many people live and die on the belief in their talent, but they can’t get anyone to buy any of their work? That’s not you, Dean. You made it.” I grab the cast iron pan and set it on the stove to heat up.
“I guess,” he concedes.
“Exactly. I think you should get back out there. I mean, you don’t have to quit your job or anything. Only crazy people do that.” I can’t help but laugh at the irony.
He raises his eyebrows.
“You know what? I just thought about something.” I quickly oil up the hot cast iron and gently lay the seasoned pork chops down so I don’t get splattered.
“What?” Dean asks, watching me with his intense silver eyes.
“Hold on.” I dart out of the kitchen and into my room, grabbing the easel I’d found in the crawl space. “Here,” I say after handing it to him.
“Where—where’d you find this?” His eyes are wide and disbelieving.
“In the crawl space,” I say. “It’s yours.”
“Are you sure?” He sounds like he’s never received a gift before.
“Remember what I said about the stick figures. It runs in the family.” I use my head to point to Mina and Grandpa in the barn.
“I can’t accept this,” Dean says, shaking his head.
“Yes, of course you can.” I push it further into his arms. “Look! You just did.”
“But I might not even use it,” he argues.
“Well, then it’ll serve as motivation. Think of it as the cost of acceptance.”
“Thank you.” Dean’s gray eyes gaze into mine. If I were the main character of a romance novel, I might call them longing.
“You’re welcome,” I say, trying to fight the blush rising to my cheeks. “If you want, I can go to the art supplies store with you. I need a few things myself.”
“But you just said you can’t draw.”
“I can’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a master with a hook.” I brandish an imaginary hook at him.
He furrows his eyebrows.
“I crochet.” I gesture to the blanket that Mina left on one of the kitchen chairs.
“Is that so?” Dean asks, a smirk on his lips.
“Yep. In middle school, I took a class during recess to get out of playing kickball.” I dump the green beans, now seasoned, onto a baking tray and put them in the toaster oven.
“What?” I almost squeak. “Kickball’s the best.”
“Not for someone without a single athletic bone in her body like me.”
“Hmph. Hold on.” He grabs his phone from his pocket and types in a number. “One second.” He says and leaves to talk to the person on the other end of the phone call.
“What was that?” I ask after he comes back in.
“Nothing. Business.” The way he says it is too casual, and I narrow my eyes.
“Me talking about kickball reminded you that you needed to make a work call?”
