her to be crushed by criticism, but if she’s going to really do this, she’s going to have to grow a thick hide because not everyone will be kind. Even blunt honesty can hurt. A lot.”
“I’ll be both.” She reached out to pat his ankle. “I’ve learned how to balance the two with young painters in my art classes. It’s a transferable skill.”
“Thank you.” He let out a breath. “I don’t want to see her hurt. It’s…been a rough year for her.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “For you too, I’m guessing.”
“Yeah. For me too.” A rough year, but nowhere near the roughest of his life. He’d had one that was so bad even thinking about it made his gut wrench with pain. So he tried not to think about it.
“How are you holding up?” Now her fingers curled around his ankle, giving a comforting squeeze.
It had been a long, long time since anyone had offered him support. Usually people wanted to take, not to give. Something sweet cinched tight in his chest. Sympathy shone on her face, and she waited patiently for an answer to her question. How was he holding up? Could he say he felt like he was drowning without coming across as pathetic? He’d dealt with crazy deadlines before. He’d been juggling the demands of parenthood for going on fourteen years. Shouldn’t it be easier by now? He wished it was. “I’m…fine. Or as fine as I can be.”
“Liar.” The word was soft.
“Yeah.” He let his head fall back against the tree. “It’s one of those things where if you start talking about it, if you let some of it out, it’ll all come pouring out. I just…I don’t have time to do that now.”
“Fair enough. But you should give yourself that time. If not now, then soon. If you keep shoving emotions down, they fester, the pressure builds and then…boom. Meltdown, ulcers, therapy. You don’t want that. For Violet’s sake, if not your own.”
Ouch. “Point taken.”
“Time to work?”
“Yes, please.” Anything but talking about all of his problems.
“That’s what I thought.” She shifted until she was lying flat again, and began adding details to her drawing.
He waited for a few minutes to see if she really meant it. There’d been more than one woman in his life who couldn’t stop chatting if there was someone nearby to talk to—Cara had been like that, though hardly the sole offender. But Laurel remained intent on her work, only glancing up at the landscape she was sketching.
Okay. Good. A little surprising, but good. He focused on the paper in front of him, twirled his pen between his fingers a few times, then started jotting down thoughts. Anything and everything was fair game at this stage of the process, so he didn’t limit himself or try to edit. That part came later. The wind ruffled through his hair and made the leaves rustle overhead, but it barely registered in his consciousness. He sank into the words he wrote, picturing the scenes until they felt almost real enough to touch.
Even then, he was aware of Laurel. Some corner of his mind noted when she sat up and pulled her sketchbook into her lap, when she flipped to a new page to draw something else. The silence between them was companionable, not loaded with resentment because one of them felt ignored. It was unusual, and he had to admit he liked it.
He had no idea how much time passed as he worked, but his hand flew across the page, the words pouring out of him. Ideas piled up, fighting to get out first. His fingers cramped, his shoulders pulling taut, but he ignored the discomfort. He knew the basic premise of the story, but some things would need to be tweaked, changed, and he could see it so clearly. How to preserve the integrity of the narrative, keep the major plot points and twists, but pare down the excess so that it was just the essentials. Not too much detail for people who hadn’t read the book, but not so little detail that it pissed off his hardcore fans who knew the novel and wanted a
“I’ll be both.” She reached out to pat his ankle. “I’ve learned how to balance the two with young painters in my art classes. It’s a transferable skill.”
“Thank you.” He let out a breath. “I don’t want to see her hurt. It’s…been a rough year for her.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “For you too, I’m guessing.”
“Yeah. For me too.” A rough year, but nowhere near the roughest of his life. He’d had one that was so bad even thinking about it made his gut wrench with pain. So he tried not to think about it.
“How are you holding up?” Now her fingers curled around his ankle, giving a comforting squeeze.
It had been a long, long time since anyone had offered him support. Usually people wanted to take, not to give. Something sweet cinched tight in his chest. Sympathy shone on her face, and she waited patiently for an answer to her question. How was he holding up? Could he say he felt like he was drowning without coming across as pathetic? He’d dealt with crazy deadlines before. He’d been juggling the demands of parenthood for going on fourteen years. Shouldn’t it be easier by now? He wished it was. “I’m…fine. Or as fine as I can be.”
“Liar.” The word was soft.
“Yeah.” He let his head fall back against the tree. “It’s one of those things where if you start talking about it, if you let some of it out, it’ll all come pouring out. I just…I don’t have time to do that now.”
“Fair enough. But you should give yourself that time. If not now, then soon. If you keep shoving emotions down, they fester, the pressure builds and then…boom. Meltdown, ulcers, therapy. You don’t want that. For Violet’s sake, if not your own.”
Ouch. “Point taken.”
“Time to work?”
“Yes, please.” Anything but talking about all of his problems.
“That’s what I thought.” She shifted until she was lying flat again, and began adding details to her drawing.
He waited for a few minutes to see if she really meant it. There’d been more than one woman in his life who couldn’t stop chatting if there was someone nearby to talk to—Cara had been like that, though hardly the sole offender. But Laurel remained intent on her work, only glancing up at the landscape she was sketching.
Okay. Good. A little surprising, but good. He focused on the paper in front of him, twirled his pen between his fingers a few times, then started jotting down thoughts. Anything and everything was fair game at this stage of the process, so he didn’t limit himself or try to edit. That part came later. The wind ruffled through his hair and made the leaves rustle overhead, but it barely registered in his consciousness. He sank into the words he wrote, picturing the scenes until they felt almost real enough to touch.
Even then, he was aware of Laurel. Some corner of his mind noted when she sat up and pulled her sketchbook into her lap, when she flipped to a new page to draw something else. The silence between them was companionable, not loaded with resentment because one of them felt ignored. It was unusual, and he had to admit he liked it.
He had no idea how much time passed as he worked, but his hand flew across the page, the words pouring out of him. Ideas piled up, fighting to get out first. His fingers cramped, his shoulders pulling taut, but he ignored the discomfort. He knew the basic premise of the story, but some things would need to be tweaked, changed, and he could see it so clearly. How to preserve the integrity of the narrative, keep the major plot points and twists, but pare down the excess so that it was just the essentials. Not too much detail for people who hadn’t read the book, but not so little detail that it pissed off his hardcore fans who knew the novel and wanted a
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