Chapter 9 #2
I mess around with some new watercolors I bought last week, trying to lose myself in the flow of creating something from nothing, but it’s harder than it usually is.
When I catch sight of Asher doing what looks like some kind of body-weight workout in the guest house later in the afternoon, I studiously avoid watching.
I’m already walking a fine line between fake girlfriend and creepy stalker.
By the time evening finally rolls around, I’ve changed clothes twice and checked my appearance in the mirror more times than I care to admit. When Asher shows up at my front door wearing dark jeans and a navy button-down that makes his eyes look even bluer, my brain temporarily stops working.
I have to remind myself that he’s not actually picking me up for a date, just fulfilling his end of our arrangement.
“Ready?” he asks, one hand braced on the door frame.
“Yeah.” I nod, slipping on my coat. “Let’s go.”
We head toward the driveway and then stop, looking between my ancient Honda and his rental.
“Which car should we take?” I ask.
He glances at my rust-bucket, then back at me with a grin. “Are you sure yours will make it?”
“Hey!” I protest, laughing despite myself. “That car has character. It’s seen a lot.”
“I have no doubt.” He’s still grinning. “But maybe we should take mine? Just to be safe?”
“Fine.” I purse my lips, pretending to be offended even as a smile tugs at my mouth. “But only because this might be the only chance I get to ride in a car that fancy.”
He chuckles and opens the passenger door for me. I blink and then step forward to slide inside, wondering if this kind of chivalry is just how he was raised or if it’s part of the boyfriend act.
As we drive toward town, I point out some local landmarks—the old mill that’s been converted into an antique shop, the elementary school where I learned to hate math, the park where Josephine broke her arm falling off the monkey bars when we were kids.
But I can’t seem to keep my hands still, first picking at a loose thread on my jacket, then fiddling with the radio, then smoothing down my hair for the third time.
“You okay?” he finally asks, glancing over at me as we turn onto my parents’ street. “You seem nervous.”
“Just the usual family jitters.” I brush it off with a wave of my hand, although I’m touched that he actually seems concerned about me.
We park in the driveway behind Dad’s truck, and I can see Mom peeking through the front window curtains. She’s probably been watching for us since I called to say we were coming. She opens the front door before we even make it up the walkway, proving my theory correct.
After a flurry of greetings and hanging up our coats, we end up around the dining room table.
Mom has outdone herself with pot roast and all the best fixings, and Dad immediately launches into enthusiastic questions about Asher’s hockey career.
And just like he promised, Asher is charming and personable, patiently answering all of my dad’s questions.
Everything seems to be going well until the conversation veers into more personal territory.
“So how’s work, Kat?” Mom asks, passing the rolls. “Are you still in between projects?”
I wince. I hate that that’s her first assumption--and I also hate that she’s right.
“Children’s book illustration is pretty competitive,” I say, trying not to let defensiveness creep into my voice. “But I’ve got some submissions out, so hopefully something will come my way soon. And I’ve had a few smaller commissions, not for books, but for other projects.”
“That’s great!” she says, although I catch the slight hesitation in her words. “We just worry sometimes about the… uncertainty of it all.”
“Have you thought about teaching art?” Dad suggests, reaching for the mashed potatoes. “You’d still get to be creative, but you’d have steady income and benefits. Maybe you could even get a job teaching in Maplewood. I bet Spilled Ink would love to host some art classes!”
I can feel myself tensing up. I love the small local art store, but my ambition has never been to teach art there. My parents mean well, but they’ve never really understood why I’d choose something so unpredictable when I could have a regular paycheck.
“Actually,” Asher says, “what Kat does is pretty specialized. The skill level required for children’s illustration is no joke.”
My parents look at him with polite interest, like they’re waiting for him to elaborate.
“Character development, visual storytelling, making complex ideas accessible to kids,” he continues. “Plus the business side of freelancing. It’s not easy.”
“Well, that’s very supportive of you,” Mom says with a smile.
Dad nods. “We’re proud of her creativity, of course. We just want to make sure she’s… secure.”
Asher glances at me, and there’s something steady in his expression. “Sounds like she’s building something she cares about. That counts for a lot.”
The conversation shifts to safer topics after that, but I find myself glancing over at Asher as if he can’t possibly be real, like he might disappear in a wisp of smoke at any moment and prove to have just been a figment of my imagination.
It was a small thing, but he didn’t just nod along when my parents suggested I should want something different than the thing I’ve dreamed about for my whole life.
He actually seemed to get it, which throws me for a bit of a loop.
My parents are still talking, catching me up on what’s been happening around town since my last visit. Who got married, who had babies, whose kids graduated college—the usual small-town updates that somehow manage to be both comforting and suffocating at the same time.
“Oh, and Mrs. Hogan finally got that fence fixed,” Mom mentions, gesturing a little with her wine glass. “You remember how you used to cut through her yard to get to the creek when you were little?”
I groan. “Please don’t tell that story.”
But it’s too late. My father chuckles, already turning to Asher to explain. “She was maybe eight years old, marching right through the Hogans’ rose garden like she owned the place.”
“What happened?” Asher asks, looking genuinely curious and way too entertained.
“Mrs. Hogan came storming over here with Kat by the ear,” Mom says, clearly enjoying herself. “Demanding we do something about our ‘little trespasser.’”
“I didn’t know it was her garden,” I protest weakly. “I thought it was just… there.”
“Just there?” Dad laughs. “Those roses were Mrs. Hogan’s whole life. She’d been working on that garden for years.”
Asher is grinning now, and I get the sense that he’s filing this information away for future reference. “So you were a tiny rebel even then.”
“I was curious,” I correct, trying to hide my blush by taking a big sip of water. “There’s a difference.”
“She was always wandering off somewhere,” Mom adds fondly. “We’d find her drawing in the strangest places. Under the porch, up in trees. Goodness, once we found her in the middle of Davis Street with her sketchpad, drawing the old courthouse.”
“Mom…”
“In the middle of the road?” Asher asks, leaning back in his chair.
“She was six,” Dad explains. “Completely oblivious to whether any cars might be coming. I thought she was right beside me, and when I looked down and realized she wasn’t there, I saw her sitting in the street cross-legged with the little sketchbook she carried everywhere with her, looking up at the building. ”
I bury my face in my hands. “Can we please talk about something else?”
But Asher is laughing now, the sound deep and amused. “I’m getting a very clear picture of little Kat.”
“Stubborn as a mule and twice as determined,” Mom says with a fond and slightly exasperated sigh, standing up to go get dessert. “Some things never change.”
Dinner winds down after we finish our pie, and Mom packs up a few leftovers while Dad promises to show Asher his woodworking setup in the garage next time he visits.
Despite the fact that I sometimes dread coming home, dread the constant attempts to explain my life choices to people who never seem to fully get it, I do miss my folks.
And spending the evening with them has felt surprisingly easy with Asher here, as if he fits into our dynamic and maybe even provides a good kind of buffer between us.
As we’re getting ready to leave, Asher’s arm slides around my shoulders while we say our goodbyes. The gesture feels so much less forced than the way I grabbed him at the airport, easy and almost unconscious, as if he’s done this a hundred times before.
But the moment we’re out of sight of the house, walking toward the car, his arm drops away.
The sudden absence of contact feels like cold water, jerking me back to reality. Right. The act he was putting on all evening—supportive boyfriend, interested partner—is done now that we no longer have an audience.
“That went well,” he says as he opens the passenger door for me. “Your parents seem nice.”
“Yeah.” I give him a bright smile, trying to hide the weird disappointment settling in my chest. “Thanks for… you know. Playing along.”
He nods, already moving around to the driver’s side, and I can’t help wondering what he really thought about the evening—or if he’s thinking about it at all.