“Where’s Alchemist?”
“Sadie, you haven’t been yet?” He feigns a wounded tone.
I like how often he uses my name—how often he uses everyone’s names. There’s an immediate familiarity to it. As I fish the keys from my bag, I say, “Just haven’t had the excuse to yet, I guess.” Or the expendable income. Or the will to leave the house.
But today’s a new day.
As soon as I get the car started, I blast the AC—the interior is hot enough to bake cookies in—and key the brewery’s address into my maps app. The inside of the car seems to shrink when Noah sinks into the passenger seat, his long legs bending awkwardly around the discarded cups and tote bag I’d left on the floorboard. Good-naturedly, he helps me transfer most of it intothe back seat along with his backpack, though he pauses with my sketchbook in hand.
I press my lips together. I forgot I’d brought it with me on one of my Liam-mandated side quests to return his books to the library. I’d paused in the shade of their small backyard garden, doodling mindlessly as I sat on an old worn bench.
“You draw?” Noah asks.
I keep my eyes on the road as I pull out of the driveway. “A little.”
It’s something of an understatement.
“Like what? Moody still lifes? Graphic design sketches?” He pauses. “It’s all naked anime men, isn’t it?”
That earns a half grin. “How did you know?”
“I know your type.” There’s a smile in his voice, and when I glance at him, the playful glint in his eyes suggestsI am also the type.“Can I see?”
Despite the many years I’ve spent creating art, it never gets easier to share it with anyone. Of course, it’s easy to post to social media, where I can share pseudonymously with a crowd of fans, friends, and mutuals. And in Liam’s house, no one knows any of the pieces he has are mine because I hate signing art; a little scribbled “S” at the bottom feels like it’s subtracting from the piece. With Noah sitting close enough that I can easily gauge his reaction as soon as he opens the cover—close enough that I’m getting distracted by whatever woody cologne he must be wearing—well. It could be awkward, if he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t strike me as a good liar.
But I can’t help feeling like I want to impress him, so I take the risk.
“Sure.”
As he opens the worn sketchbook, I glance over at the pages, though I already know all the drawings within. It’s my moodiest sketchbook, with a sticker on the cover spelling outvibesinbubbly letters. In this one, I draw whatever makes me happiest. I have others, of course, for figure studies, concept work, and more—but there’s a reason why this was the only one I’d brought with me to Texas. The Vibes book is just forme.It’s both the worst place Noah could start, if he wants an idea of what I’m truly capable of, and the best place, if he wants to get to know me.
For one, he’s not totally wrong about the naked anime men. I’ve doodled plenty of my favorite cartoon and video game protagonists, drawn in a series of different poses or in compromising positions with other characters. But alongside sketches of Kylo Ren with his pants pulled up to his nipples are charcoal drawings of my mom, tiny watercolor wildflowers, and one painstakingly rendered floor plan of what my dream apartment in New York might look like.
“These are really good, Sadie.”
I make a noncommittal noise as I keep my eyes on the flat road before me, though I sit a little straighter, pleased.
“No, really. This is modern art at its finest.”
The road’s clear, so I risk a sidelong look. Noah holds up a page with a series of portraits of the beloved wizard Gandalf: Gandalf the Blue (sad Gandalf with a drooping hat), Gandalf the Black (Goth Gandalf with thick black eyeliner), Gandalf the Pink (Barbie Gandalf with a bow in his beard), and Gandalf the Green (stoner wizard, obviously, complete with swirling pipe smoke).
“You’re too kind.”
“You could do it professionally, if you wanted to. Honest.”
“Oh yeah? You think the Tolkien estate would be interested in my work?” I turn an earnest, hopeful gaze toward Noah as the car rolls up to a stop sign.
I like the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Iwould. I’d pay you for this.”
I chew at the inside of my cheek, biting back a smile. I’m flattered, even though his comment doesn’t take root in my mind. Iknow better than to give too much hope to ideas like that. “Turn the page.”
I’m rewarded with a sharp inhale of surprise as Noah takes in my latest sketch. A woman lounges lazily on her side across the span of the page, her chin cupped in one beringed hand, a glass of wine balanced in the other. Wild honey-blond curls escape from a pink-and-turquoise headscarf, spilling over the revealing folds of a cream-and-gold-colored robe. Her telltale golden amulet nestles between her breasts. I’d used lots of different colors and quick, free-form lines to sketch out her curves, lazy perch, and coy half smile. It’s not the sort of practiced and perfected drawing that I couldsell,as Noah suggested, but I like the way I’d captured her for the first time. She’s a jumble of scribbled lines, full of possibility and potential, waiting until I’m certain enough of her character to outline her in bold, sure strokes.
“Jaylie,” he says, recognizing her immediately. “She’s lovely.”
My cheeks warm as if he had complimented me instead.
“Thank you,” I hum happily. Another stop sign. There’s a field to my right and two houses to my left, and I’m struck by how far I can see toward the horizon. I’m still getting used to how wide the landscape feels—howflat.I peek at Noah again.
