“Wow,” Lacey said. “Does Elliot seem a little more attractive all of a sudden?”

I smacked her arm.

“What?” she asked, laughing.

We exited the car and walked the stone stepway up to the house, where a gnome statue sat in a flowerpot to greet us. Its expression seemed to warn us away. I wondered if Elliot had sculpted it.

Lacey didn’t care about the gnome’s warning. She rang the doorbell.

Elliot had a much friendlier expression when he answered the door. “Hi. Welcome, ladies. Come in.”

He stepped aside. His house was just as charming inside as it was out. Someone with an artist’s eye had decorated. There were benches tucked in nooks with eclectic mismatched pillows and paintings on every wall and shelves filled with colorful glass shapes and twisted metal and foreign masks. There was something to look at everywhere, and yet it didn’t feel cluttered.

“My mom loves to collect things,” he said, noticing my gaze.

“She has great taste,” I said. “Are any of these your pieces?”

“No. There’s a room devoted to me. The Elliot shrine, I call it.” He said it in a joking manner, but I could tell it was to hide some embarrassment.

He led us farther into the house, and every room we encountered was more beautifully decorated than the one before. The kitchen was my favorite. The cabinets were a pale yellow and the countertops a brighter shade. The walls were stamped tin. It seemed like it shouldn’t work together, but it did. Especially with the pops of colorful dishes on open shelves.

“I wouldn’t leave my house if I were you,” I said. “I could paint in here all day.”

“Could you? You’re welcome to come over and paint anytime.”

Maybe I would. I still hadn’t picked up a brush. It had been over a month now. I needed something to jolt me out of this slump, and maybe this house would help me.

“Can we see your shrine?” I asked.

He ducked his head, his cheeks reddening. “I guess that’s what you’re here for.”

He had described the room right. His pieces were set on shelves on every wall, spotlights shining down on them from the ceiling. But I could see why his parents were proud. They were amazing. I slowly walked around the room, studying each carefully made piece. There were trees and faces and intricately carved shapes and vases, and on and on.

“Is the chain-yourself-to-your-art piece in here somewhere?” I asked.

“You’ve chained yourself to your art?” Lacey asked.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t. We were discussing if we had ever made any pieces that we would defend with our lives.”

“Well, with our bodies,” I said. “We never said anything about lives.”

He smiled at me. “True. And no, that piece is not my mom’s favorite, actually, so she didn’t know of its importance. Which I was happy about, because that means I get to keep it in my room.”

“Let’s see it then,” Lacey said.

His room was barer than I had expected it to be. I just assumed it would be like mine, with art and inspiration all over the walls. But it wasn’t. The furniture had clean modern lines, simple. And in the corner was his heart. I could tell by the way he looked at it. It was two shapes, twisted together, like bodies wrapped around each other. I wasn’t sure why I thought they were bodies. They had no distinct human form. But the long, elegant shapes seemed drawn to one another.

“That’s beautiful,” I said.

“I liked the big tree in the shrine room better,” Lacey said.

He shrugged. “We all have our own views.”

She fiddled with one of the bracelets around her wrist. “Do you mind if I raid your fridge for a soda or something?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Go for it. Do you want anything?” he asked me.

“I’m good.”

He and Lacey headed for the door. I spent one more moment with his sculpture. I ran my hand along the smooth surface. It felt surprisingly cold.

“He texted me,” Elliot said, and I jumped. I hadn’t realized he was still there.

I turned around. Lacey was gone and just Elliot stood in the doorway facing me.

“What?” I asked. “Who?”

“Cooper. He asked if I’d seen you. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

The words made me want to cry all over again. “What did you say?”

“I haven’t answered yet. I won’t, if you don’t want me to.”

“Tell him I’m . . .” What? Fine? Miserable? I didn’t want him to know that. Still in love with him? What was wrong with me? “Nothing. Tell him nothing.”

He waited, as if he thought I’d change my mind, then held up his phone as if Cooper were inside it. “I shouldn’t even try with you, should I? He still has a hold on you.”

I took a deep breath. “Maybe now is not the best time to try, because yes, he does.”

“I understand.”

“We can be friends though, right? I could use a friend right now.”

“Of course.”

I nodded toward his statue. “It’s really good.”

“Thanks, that means a lot coming from you.”

“From me? The amateur?”

“You were in a professional art exhibit.”

“I found out I didn’t earn my way in.”

“That only matters if you don’t believe you deserved it.”

That’s exactly what I believed. He seemed to read my expression, because he said, “Nobody else’s opinions about your art are going to matter to you until yours does.”

“When did you get so smart?”

“I always have been, really.” His eyes sparkled with his joke.

“Thanks for trying to get my mom that night, by the way.”

“I knew you wanted her there. Sorry it didn’t work out.”

“It’s okay.” I knew I needed to explain to him about my mom and why she didn’t come and how it wasn’t him, but I wasn’t ready to talk to him about it just yet. “She’s working on it,” is what I said instead. “Our household is a big work in progress right now.”

“Isn’t everybody’s? Come on, I’m sure Lacey has prepared us a feast by now.”

In the kitchen, I grabbed hold of Lacey’s hand and squeezed. “Thanks, both of you,” I said to her and Elliot. “I didn’t realize I needed more friends in my life, but I really do. It’s been nice.”

Lacey squeezed my hand back.

THIRTY-SIX

Nobody else’s opinion about my art would matter until mine did. Elliot was right. I had been so concerned about what everyone else thought about my work. It was always about my parents or Cooper, my grandpa. Everyone else. So what was my opinion about my art? I walked around my small studio back at my house. I studied each piece. I had been quick to adopt Mr. Wallace’s opinions about my paintings when he’d mentioned them—immature, one-dimensional. And maybe I still thought that way about my early paintings. But my newer ones held emotion, depth. My newer ones were good, maybe even great. I could see the growth clearly, and I could see there was room for more growth. But wouldn’t there always be room for more growth? Wouldn’t I learn and grow as long as I was willing to try? As long as I was always willing to let things around me change?