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I’ve wanted that from the beginning. Something Kell chose because he was drawn to it, not because I showed it to him or suggested it or explained that other people liked it. The proof is spread across six feet of canvas in the middle of a public park while strangers stop to watch.

It feels wonderful.

It also leaves me unexpectedly uneasy, and I’m not ready to examine why.

By the time Kell finally steps back, perhaps eight people are scattered nearby. Not a crowd exactly. Enough to make me notice.

A woman near my table has been there longer than most. She looks somewhere in her thirties, with a sleek dark bob, wide-leg linen trousers, and the polished confidence of someone who rarely worries whether she belongs somewhere.

What distinguishes her from everyone else is that she has spent almost no time looking at Kell.

She’s been looking at the painting.

When he steps away from it, she approaches him.

“Are you finished?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Kell turns toward her. So do I.

She points toward the lower left corner without getting too close to the wet canvas. “You almost lost the movement there about ten minutes ago.”

Kell looks where she’s pointing.

“Then you pulled the white through it,” she says.

“Yes.”

“It fixed it.”

He examines the section. “I thought so.”

There’s no defensiveness in him and no need for praise. Just interest that she saw what he saw.

The woman smiles. “Do you sell your work?”

Kell looks at her. “No.”

A beat passes.

“Not yet.”

I lower my phone completely.

“Would you?”

He takes his time with the question, and I stay where I am. As recently as a few days ago, I might have stepped in. Explained that he’s new to this. That he hasn’t established prices. That he’s only painted a few pieces.

All of those things are true.

None of them require me.

“This one?” Kell asks.

“If you’re willing to sell it.”