That was one reason I wanted to move out here. It wasn’t just missing my dad, or Mom and Nate LLC fighting, or even the prospect of meeting Alex. In a strange way, the reason I don’t know much about Alex, and vice versa, was one of my main incentives for moving.
The house actually didn’t turn out half bad.Huh. Well, I’m surprised my mom let you in looking like that.
Your mom loves me.Besides, she’s used to letting people covered in paint walk around this house. His finger brushed along my collarbone, tracing a line of paint I had there. Tingles shot down my arms and I took a step back.How do you get paint on your neck anyway? he asked.
The same way you did.Have I left any clothes over here lately?
I think your board shorts are still here.
He turned and headed for my room. I shook out my still-tingling arms and followed after him.The paintings looked nearly real. But wasn’t that Mr. Wallace’s point? They weren’t unique. They weren’t my own. They were based off pictures. But what did I feel when I looked at them? I just thought they looked like nice places to visit. I couldn’t feel the wind on my face or taste the air. Is that what was supposed to happen when looking at really good art?
Maybe Mr. Wallace was right. But maybe there was something I could do about it. I need experience.You’ve been painting for as long as I can remember, Mom said.
No, I mean experiences. What experiences will help me find depth—find my heart? I needed to find inspiration from life, not from pictures. And not just inspiration, but emotion too.I think you have a perfect heart, Mom said.