The Problem with Forever(78)

“Do you...keep track of your work?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“You should have pictures of this,” I insisted. “Of all that you do.”

He lowered his chin. “I have some at the house. Not together or anything. Drew usually takes a picture. Puts it up on the website.”

“A portfolio book!” Excited, I rocked back. “That’s what you need.”

The corner of his lips tipped up and then he bent down, picking up the tarp. I watched him drape it back over the car, straightening it as he walked around the sides.

I inhaled softly. “I...I would like to see more of your stuff.”

“I can show you some later. Gather up the pics,” he said, tugging the material over the trunk of the coupe.

Smiling, I unfolded my arms. An idea formed while I watched him fix the other side of the tarp as he made his way back to me. Rider wouldn’t get a portfolio book. For some reason, he just couldn’t recognize his talent, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t help him.

“Want to try it?” he asked.

My eyes widened. “Try painting a car?”

Rider’s hazel eyes twinkled as he laughed. “No. Not painting a car, Mouse.” Walking toward me, he gestured at the canvas tacked to the wall. “Paint there.”

Turning, my gaze crawled across the canvas. There were spots untouched by paint. Mostly the lower half.

Rider walked to the bench and opened the drawer, pulling out two white masks. “Fumes can get a bit much.” He walked back to me. “So what do you think?”

Smiling, I nodded.

The twist of his lips kicked up higher and he placed the mask over my head, letting it dangle below my chin. His eyes met mine as he scooped my hair out from under the band. He hesitated, staring down at me. His mouth opened as if he wished to say something but then changed his mind. He slipped his own mask on, letting it hang as he pivoted around, approaching a tall plastic cabinet near the bench. He opened it, and out came regular-looking spray cans.

“Figured we’d start with this before we moved on to that stuff,” he explained, tone light as he handed over a can with a red top. “The color suits you.”

I felt my cheeks heat as I wrapped my hands around the can. Rider led me over to the canvas, shaking his can as he went. I did the same, probably looking a little deranged.

“How about we start with just a letter—the letter M.” He tugged his mask up over his mouth and when he spoke, his voice was muffled. “Here.”

Shoving the can under his arm, he turned to me and pulled the mask up, situating it over my mouth. His hands lingered along the band, sending a shiver dancing down my spine. “There you go.”

He popped the lid off the can and it hit the floor with a soft clang. Eyes bright, he knelt down and with a series of flicks, he had a bold letter R in black paint. “Your turn.”

At first I just stood there, frozen with indecision. I didn’t know what I was doing. I mean, spray-painting a letter wasn’t hard, but the idea of even trying to do it was frightening, because...because of what? Failing? How could I fail at spray-painting a letter? I mean, come on. And if I did somehow manage to be that ridiculous, Rider wouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care.

But I was scared of just trying.

A tremor curled down my arm, and I stopped thinking, stopped stressing. I popped the lid off and then walked forward. I knelt down and painted a giant, bubbly letter M in red.

There.

No big deal.

No one was injured or killed by my lame M. I looked up at Rider, and even though I couldn’t see his mouth, I thought he was smiling.

“So...” He added an I beside his R. “You’re looking at college, right?”

I started to nod as I drew an A, but forced myself to talk. “Yes. I want to...go to College Park, but I...”

“What?”

My brows knitted as I concentrated on what I was doing. “Carl and Rosa want me to go into...one of the health sciences, focus on research. Marquette—their daughter—was going to become a doctor like them.”

Rider was quiet as he worked slightly above me, to my left. “Is that what you want to do?”

“I...” I stopped, lowering the can as I stared at the first three letters of my name. I already knew the answer, but I thought about how Carl had laughed and outright dismissed my idea of going into social work. I didn’t want Rider to do the same. “I don’t...know.” I looked over at him. “Do you think that’s not what I want?”

He paused, his gaze finding mine. “I don’t know the answer to that, Mouse. You’re not the same girl I knew four years ago.”

Sometimes I felt like I was exactly the same girl.

He started spraying again and the heavy scent of paint puffed into the air. “As long as it’s what you’re passionate about, go for it.”

I was so not passionate about research, but I had a feeling I would be when it came to social work. I just didn’t want to disappoint Carl and Rosa, and I knew if I decided to do something like that, I would. But what else was I passionate about?

Rider talked about the different jobs he’d done, some of the shapes he had to paint. I’d laughed when he said he had to do a clown on a van once. That was about fifty levels of creepy. We filled in our letters. Rider got all fancy, zig-zagging designs throughout the letters. I tried it and it looked like blood splatter.