Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Very well. I won’t disturb you any further. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Ruiz. You deserve the praise your work is receiving.” With a small nod, Professor Lawrence strolls away, hands clasped behind his back.
I turn to Adrian, stunned. “Did that just happen?”
“I think it did,” he says, smiling.
“Did that really just …?” I put a hand to my forehead, overcome. “I mean, he basically just … just offered me a scholarship, right? He said, ‘Hey, we have money to give out, don’t let anything hold you back!’ … Right??”
“I think so. Great impersonation of him, by the way, even got his deep tone.”
I’m so happy, I’ve forgotten where I am. I could burst into laughter any second. It’s incredible, what the smallest amount of validation can do for the soul. Just a matter of days ago, I was considering giving up everything I loved and following my father’s wishes, to step into the unfillable shoes of my late brother.
Now my future looks so bright, it’s almost blinding.
“Um, Quin …” murmurs Adrian.
I look up, pulled out of my dreams. “Yeah?”
He nods to the side. I turn.
My father’s found me. A simple polo shirt and slacks, his eyes tired and weary behind his glasses, his hair in its perfect part. But when I look at him, I don’t see the harsh-faced, angry man I was expecting to find.
Instead, he looks puzzled. “Quintin?”
I blink. “Dad?”
“You weren’t going to invite me here? I had to hear about it in an email from your school that went into my spam folder?”
Despite his words, he doesn’t sound angry.
Still, I should proceed with caution. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you or Mom—”
“Well, you’ve got another think coming. Mom couldn’t be here only because she wasn’t up for the travel, what with her bad knees. But you should’ve seen her face when I told her our son was being featured at an art gallery down in Dreamwood Isle. Her face lit up. Then she cried.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not that I don’t understand your reasoning,” he goes on. “I … I suppose our last exchange of words wasn’t altogether a pleasant exchange.” He seems to notice Adrian for the first time. “Sorry, excuse me. Didn’t mean to—”
“Dad, this is Adrian,” I quickly say. “Adrian, my dad.”
Adrian gives my dad a quick handshake. “Hi, Dad,” he greets him, then freezes. “Uh … I mean Mr. Ruiz.”
My dad smiles. It clearly takes an effort. “Adrian.” He then faces me again. “Quintin, I … I don’t ever want our last words to each other to be angry ones. Even if we’re angry with each other. We should come from a place of love, always, even if we disagree.”
Mom obviously had a talk with him after that night he visited me. Those are her words.
Still, I don’t know how to connect this version of my dad with the version in the hallway of my loft who told me to give it all up and come home and do something sensible with my life.
“A place of love …” I murmur, imagining Mom saying those words.
“I saw your paintings,” he adds.
My feet have become glued to the floor. I just stare at him and wait for the rest of it. A chill settles in my chest.
“They were … somethin’ else,” he finishes.
That can go either way with my dad. Better to clarify. “‘Somethin’ else’ …?”
“I wasn’t sure what all the men on the beach were. You are probably gonna have to explain those ones to me. But that last one … with you and … and …” His lip quivers. His voice tightens. Is he fighting back tears?
I come up to him. “Dad?”
A single tear drops behind his glasses, which he swiftly takes off, wipes the tear away, then sets his glasses back on his face. “It got to me,” he finally manages to say. “Didn’t know you had it in you, to get me like that.”
Again, those words could go either way. “Dad …”
“I’m so proud of you.”
My eyes snap to his.
Proud …?
At once, his arms are around me. I don’t know what to do as I get pressed like a pancake against my father. This kind of a hug, he hasn’t given me in over a year. It’s so tight, I can barely breathe.
“Dad, air,” I manage to say.
He lets go. “Your brother …” He takes a moment to gather himself. Then he puts his hands on my shoulders. “Your brother would’ve been so proud of you.”
“I know,” I admit rather casually. “I talked to Angel a few nights ago, out on the beach. That’s where the painting came from.”
My dad stares at me. “You what?”
“It was probably in my head, but it felt real enough to convince me, and isn’t that what matters? Dad, I know you had expectations for him, and I know they aren’t met with me, but … I think Angel would’ve wanted me to follow my heart anyway. Maybe in some respect, you would, too, if you realized how happy art makes me.”