8. Ari
EIGHT
ARI
Steam curled from the chipped mug resting between my palms. Third cup.
Maybe fourth. I’d lost track somewhere between the first swallow and the two unread texts from Cael still sitting on my phone screen.
He’d be fine. Probably watching some rerun with his feet on my mom’s coffee table and stealing bites of whatever she’d baked that morning.
The swing creaked under me, the familiar groan of old chain links shifting with every slow rock.
Paint flakes clung to the armrest, stubborn and cracked.
I ran a finger along one edge, let it curl under my nail.
Same spot I’d promised to repaint—how many times now?
Three? Four? Didn’t matter. I hadn’t done it.
Out beyond the patio, sunlight bleached the grass into patches. The jacaranda tree swayed a little in the breeze, like it knew how to be graceful without trying. I tilted the mug and drank what was left, lukewarm and bitter.
Too quiet for music. Too warm to be productive.
Mom had gone to work, so it was just me, the swing, and every thought I hadn’t figured out how to outrun yet.
The phone rang. Not buzzed. RANG. Like a proper call. The kind that made your stomach lurch even before you checked the screen.
Unknown.
I stared for a second too long before sliding my thumb across the screen.
"Hello?"
"Ari Jackson?"
The voice was bright. Familiar in that "I probably scolded you in the fourth grade" kind of way.
"Speaking."
"This is June Evans. Planning committee. Fourth of July."
My spine straightened a little. "Yes, ma’am?"
Mrs. Evans had been on every school committee, community event board, and church fundraiser this side of the state line.
She baked the kind of banana bread that made grown men weep and could organize a town parade with nothing but a clipboard and prayer.
The woman was adorable in that business-like kinda way.
“You didn’t think you could sneak back into town without me finding out, did you?” she continued.
My mouth tugged sideways. “Guess I underestimated you.”
“Well, Cael told me you were back and that you can still make magic with a paintbrush.”
A soft chuckle escaped before I could stop it. “Yeah… he talks too much.”
“He talks just enough.” She didn’t miss a beat.
Cael wasn’t wrong. This was exactly the kind of nudge he’d give—subtle as a sledgehammer but always with the best intentions. He wasn’t trying to shove me into something I didn’t want. He just hated watching me stall out.
“Now,” Mrs. Evans went on, brisk again. “We need banners. Big, bold, and festive. You’ve seen Main Street—it needs a bit of flair. Nothing store-bought. We want local. We want you.”
Her words shouldn’t have made my chest go all tight like that. But they did.
I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Sure. I can do the banners.”
“Good.” She didn’t even pause to let me second-guess it. “Come by the town office this afternoon—we’ll talk some more. I’ve got measurements and a few notes for you.”
“Okay.” I tapped my thumb against the mug’s handle, trying to ignore the way my stomach had suddenly gotten involved in the conversation.
There was a shuffle of paper on the other end, like she was already on to her next list.
“And if you’ve got time,” she added, casual as you please, but I could already feel the trapdoor opening beneath me, “we’re still hoping someone with your skill might take on the mural at the VFW.
We’re just waiting on final approval from the council, but I figured I’d mention it now—get you thinking. ”
That word again.
Mural.
It wasn’t even a massive wall—nothing like the one from sophomore year. That one was a city project, pulled together by one of my professors. No deadlines, no grades—just a handful of volunteers and a vision. It was supposed to be about community and expression and all that good stuff.
I’d said yes—tentatively. Sketched a few concepts.
Showed up to the first couple planning meetings.
Tried to act like I wasn’t intimidated. But the more serious it got, the more I froze up.
Everyone else seemed to move with purpose, confident in their ideas, while I kept hesitating—reworking, overthinking, spiraling.
By the end of the first week, I’d stopped showing up.
They finished the mural without me.
No one was mad. My professor even pulled me aside and said she got it—“Art isn’t always linear,” or something like that.
But I still remembered walking past the wall later that summer, staring at the finished product and wondering if anyone could tell I’d ever been part of it at all.
If there was even a trace of me left beneath all that color.
Now here was Mrs. Evans, dangling another wall in front of me. Smaller this time. Simpler, maybe. But still public. Still permanent. Still a test I wasn’t sure I’d pass.
I cleared my throat. “Let me get through the banners first,” I said, voice even, “then I’ll see where I’m at.”
She made a sound—something between a hum and a hmm—that said she heard me loud and clear.
"We want it to be a veterans’ tribute, Ari.
Patriotic but tasteful. You’d have full creative control, of course.
We just want something that reminds folks what we’re celebrating, and we’d love to see your work out there again. "
My pulse climbed higher, all tight in my throat.
“I appreciate that, really,” I said carefully. “I just want to give the banners my full attention first. Don’t want to overpromise and underdeliver, you know?”
Another beat of silence, just long enough for me to wonder if I’d disappointed her.
“All right then,” she said, letting it go, just like that. “We’ll start with the banners. And Ari?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
The line clicked before I could respond.