Chapter 15 #2
“No, late August.” He looks as confused as everyone else does when they learn my name and subsequent birthday.
“My parents are hippies and never really made much sense. Anyway, they forgot my birthday, which wasn’t a surprise because they were out in Utah or Washington or something on a retreat.
My grandparents forgot too, because they were pretty old by then, and my brother is a boy, so he just…
inherently forgot. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it because I’ve never liked to make a big fuss about things that are just for me.
But a week later, my grandma remembered, and she was so upset.
Anyway, every year after that, we watched that movie together on what she deemed to be my second birthday, a week after my real birthday.
Until she died, I’d get two presents every year, one on my real birthday, the other on my second birthday.
” I smile at the sweet memory, one that could have been negative, with the burn of a forgotten milestone, yet became anything but.
“Sounds… nice, strangely enough. I don’t think I ever got more than a card with ten bucks in it from my grandparents as a kid.”
“They were the best. They raised us and were the coolest, kindest people I’ve ever met,” I say with a smile. I open my mouth to ask another question, but my phone buzzes beside me, stealing my attention. I groan aloud when I read the message on my screen. “Dammit.”
“Boyfriend?” Graham asks quickly. “I mean, you don’t have to share, I just...” I lift an eyebrow at him as a tiny hint of a blush burns across his cheeks. I smile, but put him out of his misery instead of teasing him more.
“I don’t have a boyfriend. Something I hope you already knew or at least assumed because…
well…” Now it’s my turn for a blush to burn on my cheeks.
Instead of digging myself a deeper hole, I shake my head and change the subject.
“No, it’s just my friend bugging me about something,” I say with a sigh, deciding to ignore Claire’s text until after work.
“I thought that was the whole point of friends? That’s what you’ve been doing to me, isn’t it?”
“Is that you agreeing that we’re friends?” I ask with a lifted brow.
“Probably not. I feel like if we were friends, you’d be sharing whatever’s bothering you,” he challenges, one I feel compelled to rise to, but am not sure if I should.
I mull on it as we sit in silence for a bit, and I reach into the bag and grab the last few of my chips.
Their loud crunch silences my thoughts enough to build the courage to speak again, turning to him fully as I do.
“My friends are trying to convince me to open up a business. I’ve always pushed it aside, since teaching took up so much of my time, but now that I’m not teaching, they’re pushing harder.
” I don’t know why I’m telling Graham this, but as I do, a weight lifts from my shoulders.
Maybe this is what I need: an unbiased, logical source to confirm that Claire and Lainey’s idea is silly.
“Oh? Maybe I could help. You know, businesses are kind of my thing,” he says, settling in, and I shake my head quickly, clarifying.
“Not, like, a real one. Just a little… side thing.”
“Every business is a real business,” he says.
“That’s not something I would have thought you’d say.”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s the truth. Anyone brave enough to put themselves out there, to try and build something out of nothing, whether it be a huge corporation or something small, is impressive. So what’s yours?”
“Art,” I admit on a sigh. “Paintings, mostly. My friends want me to start selling them.”
“Are you any good?” he asks, and I lift a shoulder. “Show me.”
It’s a demand, one I should argue, but instead I find myself grabbing my phone, scrolling through until I find the photos I took to upload to the shop.
He accepts the device, and my heart pounds as he swipes through, assessing each one slowly and methodically.
After what feels like an eternity, he lifts his head to look at me, nothing but pure awe and sincerity written across his face.
“These are...wow. June, these are amazing.” A blush creeps down my cheeks and over my neck, and I bite my lip. “Did you ever take classes?” He turns back to my phone, swiping again, pausing on one and zooming in a bit, taking in the small details of a wave curling, about to crash on the shore.
“Not formally,” I say, hating the attention being on me like this. “My grandma gave me lessons.”
“Was she a teacher, too?”
“Not exactly,” I say, and this time, my lips tip with a small smile.
He lifts his head from my phone and looks at me quizically.
“She taught art at the senior center and at the jail,” I explain, and his eyes widen.
“It was funny, this cute little old lady going into the county jail, teaching the basics once a week, but she loved it. She loved teaching, and she told me that everyone deserves to have some beauty in their life, even if they have to make it themselves. That’s what art was to her: a bit of joy you make yourself and get to keep.
” He stares at me for long moments, setting my phone onto the towel before he finally speaks.
“Explains you, I suppose.”
“How so?” He leans back onto his hands again, but his face has gone soft in a way I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing.
Part of me is glad I haven’t, because it would only make the seemingly constant warring feelings in my chest even more confusing.
When he speaks, I expect him to mention that I am a teacher, but he surprises me.
“I’ve never met anyone who takes low points and sees them as opportunities, constantly looking the bright side, determined to make the best of everything.
It’s admirable. I’ve never met anyone who tries to bring more beauty into the world, even though you’ve been shown time and time again that it can be anything but. ”
I smile softly.
“I get that from her, too. She was a firm believer that everything happened for a reason, but whether it was good or bad depended solely on how you responded to it, whether you saw it as a curse or an opportunity. She used to say that even if you can’t see them, you have to chase the rainbows, to keep going through the storm until you hit the sunshine.
There’s always something better waiting for you; you just have to look for it.
” He stares at me for long moments, reading me in a way I don’t think anyone ever has before.
“Okay, Miss Optimism, so what’s the holdup? I know a dozen people who would pay good money to have original art like this in their homes.”
I bite my lip, and for some reason, I find myself sharing more with him.
“Art is…complicated in my family. My parents went off to pursue it. They were always chasing some dream, and most of the time, my brother and I didn’t fit into that vision; our grandparents had to raise us because of it.
I’m very logical in that regard because of that.
I know art is fun and cool and admirable, but I also am aware that the number of people who actually manage to make a living from it is so microscopic, it’s not a reliable form of work.
” I expect him to agree, but he surprises me by shaking his head fervently.
“Not anymore. Maybe in the nineties and early thousands, but these days, with anyone able to make a website and use free marketing tactics on social media? It’s much more attainable.
” He tips his chin to where I’m still playing with the clovers absentmindedly.
“You’re always trying to collect luck,” he says, the change of subject feeling abrupt.
“What’s the point of being lucky if you’re never going to use it?
Who knows? You could get lucky, get your piece into the right hands, and your business could blow up. ”
My pulse picks up with his words.
If even straight and narrow, logical Graham, who definitely wouldn’t sugarcoat something to make me feel better, thinks I should go for it, what’s stopping me?
I run my hand over the grass, contemplating how to reply to his question, but before I can formulate a response, I spot something, and my hand pauses. I shift my fingers again and gasp.
Quickly, I move to my knees, bend over the grassy area, and gently spread the blades apart with my hands, looking more closely. “Oh my god!” I shout, then glance over my shoulder at him. He’s looking at me, panic-stricken, and if I weren't so excited, it would be funny.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“A four-leaf clover! I found a four-leaf clover!” My eyes go wide as I look at him, anxiousness setting in. “What do I do now? Is it bad luck to pull it out?” Graham looks at me, confused as ever. “I’ve never found one! I don’t know the procedure!”
“I think you just pull it out gently,” he says, his voice calm and a bit entertained.
I take in a deep breath, nod, and do as he instructed. A moment later, I have a full, bright green four-leaf clover in the palm of my hand, the roots coming out with it easily.
“I can’t believe it. I found one!” I look at him with a wide grin, one I couldn’t dim if I tried. I know I must look out of my mind, but I can’t find it in me to care. “You know, I think you might be good luck, Graham.”
He gives me that soft look once more, and I think I might like seeing this more than the tiny hints of a smile I’ve been chasing.
“What are you going to do with this newfound luck?” he asks, and I take in a deep breath, the clover still in my hand.
“I think I’m going to be brave. Hit go on my shop.
See what happens,” I say, letting the words fall from my lips before I can second-guess them.
“I mean, this has to be a sign, right? Why else, after a lifetime of looking, would I find a four-leaf clover right when I’m talking to you about my art and starting a business? ”
“Agreed. You should do it,” he says, the words sincere before he looks at his watch and sighs. “Unfortunately, I should probably get inside. I've got some catching up to do.”
“Thanks for having lunch with me,” I say, standing and gathering my garbage with one hand, holding my precious clover in the other, my hands still shaking a bit with the adrenaline from finding it. He gently shakes out the towel and folds it before we make our way inside.
“Anytime,” he says. “It wasn’t a miserable way to spend a meal.”
“Anytime, huh? Don’t tempt me, Graham. I’ll hold you to it,” I say with a smile.
“I’m sure you will,” he says, then sets the towel on my desk and walks into his office, leaving me with my thoughts and my clover.
That night, I go home and stare at the shop, fully built and ready to go live the way it’s sat for about a week.
I stare at it.
And I stare at it.
I move through the pages, making sure everything is perfect, trying to find any reason to procrastinate hitting the go button, but to my horror, I can’t find one.
Not a one.
And as I sit there, a voice speaks in my mind.
It’s not Claire, telling me to just go for it.
It’s not Lainey, telling me that it’s what I’ve always wanted.
It’s not Maggie, Mayor Mosely, or anyone else telling me I’m talented and should make a go of art as a career.
Instead, it’s Graham, asking me what I’m so scared of—asking me why I’m so determined to find luck if I’m never going to use it. My eyes drift to the book whose pages I’m pressing the four-leaf clover in.
I’d never tell him, but he’s right.
That’s the thought that has me taking in a deep breath and hitting go live.
Then I close my laptop before I can second-guess myself and put it into the universe’s hands.