Chapter 33
John spotted Morgan right away across the large warehouse turned art space. She was an inch or so taller than her mom, with the same sun-kissed face, and sandy hair sporting a blue streak. And when she smiled, her mother was there in the bright eyes, the warmth and the openness.
“So, there’s Morgan. We should go say hi.” Celeste nibbled on her lower lip, and John hoped, again, he was right to be there. She’d been enthusiastic in her invitation, but it had been in an enthusiastic moment, their bodies flush together and surrounded by butterflies.
He’d answered without hesitation. Not just because he was interested in seeing Morgan’s art, though he was. And not because he worried about Celeste dipping back into sadness after the contest loss, though he did.
He was there because she had asked him to come.
Celeste broke into a faster walk as they reached Morgan, pulling her daughter into a tight hug.
“Hi, Mom.” Morgan’s voice was muffled as she squirmed out of the embrace.
Celeste beamed. “I’m finally here!”
“You didn’t miss much, just a lot of standing around.” Morgan glanced at John, her eyebrows shooting up in a look of intrigue that was quintessentially Celeste. “I didn’t know you were bringing the bird guy.”
“I didn’t bring him,” Celeste said quickly. “We drove separately. And you know he has a name.”
Morgan smirked and nodded toward him. “Hi, John. Thanks for coming.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“How was the dinner?” Morgan looked between them. “Did you guys win the—”
Celeste cut her off with a quick “No.”
Morgan tilted her head, watching her mom, as she tugged on a strand of her blue hair. “Oh fuck, really?”
“Language, Morgan.”
Morgan’s answering groan prompted a smile from Celeste, one that grew as Maria skidded to a stop next to them.
“Cel, thank God you’re finally here. Did you know they’re only serving juice? My first night out on the town without my baby and there’s no alcohol.” She shook a small plastic cup full of the unsatisfactory liquid.
Celeste laughed. “It is an art show for high schoolers.”
“And those high schoolers don’t have parents? Or wonderful aunt-type role models who left their baby at home and just want a glass of fuc—” Her gaze hit John. “Well, hello! I didn’t expect to see you here.” She looked back to Celeste, eyebrows high.
“I thought he’d like to see the show,” Celeste answered, the smile on her face wobbling.
“I’m sure he would.” Maria downed her juice in one gulp. “So, are you celebrating after the big win?”
Celeste tipped her head back. “This is what I get for being overconfident. A night of being reminded I lost.”
Maria frowned. “Oh fuck, really?”
Celeste and Morgan laughed, the echoed tones twisting together. “Well,” Celeste said, clapping her hands. “At least there’s consensus.”
Morgan pulled her phone from her jeans pocket and showed the lit-up screen to Celeste. “I really have to do this?”
“Yes. He is your father and he wants to see your show.” She reached for a strand of Morgan’s hair, rubbing it between her fingers before tucking it behind her ear. “Just give him the tour. You can make it fast.”
“Fine.” She pressed something on her phone and walked away, heading toward one of the gallery walls.
“You convinced him to do it?” Maria asked once Morgan was out of earshot.
John remembered Celeste’s phone call with Peter—her request and his response that she was overboard. It seemed ages ago, that evening she’d come into his workshop and swiped her finger along his worktable. Since then, he’d had her largely to himself, either at his house or outside looking for birds. But as she huddled with Maria, her eyes following her daughter as she walked the phone around the room, he realized how much of her life he hadn’t seen, how much of herself she’d kept on the other side of their agreement.
“Well…” Maria cleared her throat and looked at John again, then to Celeste. “There might not be wine, but there are adults without spit-up on their clothes, so I’m going to go mingle.”
With a little wave, she was gone, leaving Celeste and John alone. John pulled awkwardly at the sleeves of his button-down. “Are you sure it’s okay that I’m—”
“Oh gosh, I just remembered.” Celeste glanced around the room. “They wanted to check in with all the parents about permission for a news story.” She bit her lower lip slightly as she addressed John. “You okay to look around for a bit?”
He nodded, twisting his hands together to keep them reaching for her. “Of course. Go do your thing. I’ll be here.”
A few minutes later, he was looking at Celeste’s back. It was drawn in pencil, filled in with bright colors that captured the ephemeral light from the window in the bright morning hours. In the drawing, she was leaning her palms against the kitchen counter, looking outside.
Morgan’s pieces were grouped together along a cream-colored wall. One showed a detailed black-and-white sketch of a pair of high-top Converse standing on a skateboard. Another depicted saguaros scattered along a steep mountain slope. And then there was this—Celeste, awash in color, her hands curved over the edge of the yellow countertop. Her hair was up in a ponytail, like always, and Morgan had even managed to capture the unruly wisps along her neck.
“You’ve been looking at this one a long time. You might be my biggest fan.”
Morgan smirked from where she’d appeared at his side. The familiarity of her expression put him at ease, even if he didn’t have a lot of experience with teenagers.
“Your mom holds that title.”
“Mom takes support to a whole new level. I honestly worried she’d show up in a special T-shirt.” But even as she rolled her eyes, Morgan smiled.
John nodded to the drawing. “It’s hard to believe you can do so much with just pencils.”
Morgan hummed, eyes on her work on the walls. “That’s kinda been my thing, I guess. I’m excited to try some new stuff when I’m—” She stopped abruptly, combing her fingers through her hair. She cleared her throat and nodded toward the drawing of Celeste looking out the window. “This one was, like, a miracle.”
“How so?”
“She never stands still like that, like ever. She looked so cool with the light coming in, I wanted to get it, but I was sure she’d start bustling around again before I was done. But she just stayed there. I threw it into the show at the last minute.”
John realized why the sketch had absorbed him so thoroughly. He’d heard about it, from Celeste. “She was looking at a bird.”
Morgan turned from the wall of art to face John. “What?”
“She told me about it later that day. She saw a bird fly into the yard, and she was trying to identify it. And then”—John looked around the room for Celeste, his eyes landing on her not far away, chatting with Maria—“she heard you drawing.”
Morgan’s brow furrowed, and he continued. “She heard your pencil, so she didn’t move. She said it had been a while since you’d drawn her, and”—there was something in the anticipation in Morgan’s eyes that made him keep going—“she was happy you were doing that, so she stayed still. After the bird flew away.”
She stared at the drawing again, tilting her head back and forth. A screech of microphone feedback made them both turn toward a man across the room, standing at a drab podium.
“If everyone could gather over here, please, we’d like to honor the artists.”
John and Morgan walked together toward a group of folding plastic chairs, where Morgan peeled off to sit with a friend. Celeste herself was waving at him from a place near the front, and as he approached she patted the empty plastic chair beside her.
“Sorry I disappeared. Too many people to say hi to. I saw you talking to Morgan. What did you two talk about?”
“Just art.” He shrugged, knowing it would elicit a frustrated sigh. But he wasn’t ready to hand over his quiet moment with Morgan just yet. Before Celeste could begin an interrogation, the event organizer began reading off a few announcements and then launched into short bios of each student.
John enjoyed hearing the little snippets—some kids had grown up with art, while others had started more recently. Most were heading to college the following year in Arizona, like Morgan, while some were setting out around the country.
“Morgan Johanssen-Davis, Tucson High.”
Celeste’s knee shook fast next to John’s leg as Morgan’s name was read.
“Morgan is a senior at Tucson High, where she has participated in art club, yearbook, and the LGBTQ club. She has been an artist for as long as she can remember, and her favorite place to draw is at the kitchen table in her mother’s house.”
A strangled sigh escaped Celeste, and when John glanced at her, her bottom lip was shaking. Slowly, she slid a hand onto his thigh, and he covered it with his own, rubbing gently over her knuckles.
“Morgan’s preferred medium is pencil, though she has recently experimented with chalk, charcoal, and pastels. She would like to thank her parents and Em for their support. In August, Morgan will move to Los Angeles, where she plans to hone her craft while experiencing the vibrant art culture of Southern California.”
Celeste’s hand froze on John’s knee as his own brow furrowed, mirroring hers. Celeste had told him weeks ago that Morgan was bound for college in northern Arizona, quizzing John about his younger brother Jared’s balance of lifetime interest in art while also holding down a “real” job. He wondered why she hadn’t mentioned Morgan’s change of plans.
But as Celeste gasped, it became clear she hadn’t known herself. Her eyes went wide, and then her voice reached well above the volume of the golf clap following the reading of Morgan’s bio.
“Excuse me.” All heads swiveled her way. “But what the hell did you just say?”