A shiver ran up my spine.
“Thanks,” I replied bashfully.
“How do you make it so lifelike?” Damien asked, peering at the sketch. “It almost looks three-dimensional.”
“Practice,” I answered. “Lots and lots of practice.”
“How did you learn to draw so well?”
“No idea,” I answered. “I always doodled, and I kept at it because I loved doin’ it so much. I just got better over time.”
“It shows in your work because wow.”
I always found it hard to take a compliment, but whenever I was praised for my work, my pride soared. I still didn’t like focusing on me though, I’d rather talk about someone, or something, else.
“Do you want some lunch? How long is your break?”
“Don’t do that.”
I froze. “Don’t do what?”
“You get embarrassed when people praise your work, and you try to change the subject.”
I gnawed on my lower lip. “I’m shy.”
“Shy?” Damien repeated. “You didn’t seem all that shy earlier on the phone.”
My cheeks turned supernova at the reminder.
“Oh, God, don’t!” I warned. “I was brave earlier, but I’m not anymore. Please, don’t talk about it. I’ll die.”
“I’ll leave you alone … but I’m still getting you back.”
“And I’m still looking forward to it, but in the meantime, shut up.”
Damien chortled and returned his gaze back to the sketch.
“Do you always prefer to just sketch?”
“Depends on my mood,” I explained. “Some days I like to paint.”
Damien’s eyes dropped to my plaid shirt, noting the stains. “I can see.”
“It can get messy sometimes.”
Heat flashed in his eyes for a moment, then as quick as it appeared, it vanished.
“What kind of artist are you?”
I thought about that question. Hard.
“I’m different,” I shrugged. “Some people see the world in black and white, or in a burst of colour ... I see it as a blank canvas waitin’ for me to add me life through colour.”
I smiled and looked down at my hands, noting different coloured paint dotted my skin and decorated my nails as well as some smduges of charcoal.
“I love the freedom of art. There are no rules, no right or wrong, no punishment, just self-expression. This is me centre; it’s what I love doin’, so I don’t care that it makes me different. I like different.”
“I like different, too,” Damien said. “People who are different have a shot at being original. They stray from the lines instead of sticking to the script. Everything they do is an adventure.”
I felt my mouth hang open.
“Exactly,” I said softly. “Exactly.”
“What’s the shocked face for?”
“You get me,” I answered. “No one has ever just … got me before.”
“Yeah, well, you never know,” Damien winked. “Maybe I’m different, too.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, staring at him like I was seeing him for the first time all over again. “Maybe.”
After Damien had lunch at my apartment, he went back to work, and Ryder graciously picked him up so he wouldn’t be late. I got cleaned up, changed out of my work clothes, and got Barbara settled into her crate after she had food and water. I didn’t want her to be in the crate outside of when I had to travel with her, but she seemed to love staying inside it. She wandered into it and stayed inside it even when the door was open. I left the door of the crate open so she had access to her food, water, and her litter tray. Then I headed to Bronagh’s house. I knew that Nico was at work, so I wanted to go and keep her company with Georgie until he got home. The second I stepped into her house, my best friend tackled me in a hug, and she was … crying.
“Bronagh?” I said, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“You and … D-Damien,” she sobbed. “You’re both a couple. Ryder told Branna and she told me and I’ve been cryin’ ever since.”
I stared at her when she pulled back from our hug.
“It makes you cry?”
“I’m so happy.” She sniffled. “So happy for you both.”
I smiled at her and hugged her again, knowing her hormones were back to being all over the place now that she was pregnant again.
“Put the kettle on,” I said, “and I’ll tell you everythin’.”
We went into the kitchen, and I glanced at Georgie’s buggy, noting it was empty.
“Where is Georgie?”
“Nappin’,” Bronagh answered, pointing at the baby monitor on the counter before she grabbed some tissues and dabbed under her eyes. “She just went down ten minutes ago, so we’ve a solid hour, at least, before she stirs.”
“What do you want to hear about first?” I questioned. “Me ma or Damien?”
“Your ma,” Bronagh answered instantly.
I launched into the same detailed conversation my ma had with me about her cancer and her upcoming treatment. Bronagh made us tea and sat at the kitchen table with me as I explained everything. She listened, and when I finished speaking, she said, “Does havin’ a plan make you feel better?”