40. 40
I’m not creating the light in Miles. Nooo. I can’t be. That’s crazy. We barely know each other.
And yet, here we are twenty-four hours later, and I am still thinking about Lucy’s words. Still thinking about her arm around my shoulders and the motherly way she told me she loved me too. It pierced me. The only other woman to have ever looked at me like that is Grandma.
“With that wide brush, you’re going to paint over the white acrylic paint with any color you want for your sky.” Miles weaves through his six students and me, winking as he walks past me.
“He’s very, very, very handsome,” Cinnamon says. She’s the tiniest person I’ve ever met. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and while I don’t ask—and no one tells me—I can see that she is a beautiful girl with Down syndrome.
Her eyes flutter Miles’ way as he walks over to Walt.
“Mr. Miles,” a man named Eric says. “The sky is blue. It’s blue. We need blue.”
“You’re right, Eric. The sky is often blue.” His brows bounce as if he’s about to share a secret with Eric. “Have you ever seen the sky at sunset?”
Eric closes his eyes and shakes his head, muttering to himself, “The sky is blue.” The aide who stayed to assist Eric hops over, patting his back and whispering in his ear. There are two more aides, both on their phones, waiting out the lesson, but Eric’s aide never leaves his side.
Miles continues. “Guys, look at this.” He pulls out his phone and walks around to each and every member of his class. “This is a picture of the sunset last night. Delaney and I were walking home after a night with my family, and this is what we saw.” He walks around showing off the photo he took. I don’t need to see it. I can picture it in my head.
I dip my brush in the pinkish-purple color on my palette.
“What color is the sky here?”
“Purple,” Walt says.
“Pink and orange,” Cinnamon chimes.
They’re both right. Last night the sky was beautiful—pink, orange, and purple.
Miles holds the phone for Eric to see. The man’s bushy brows furrow and both of his hands at his sides rotate at his wrist. “The sky is blue,” he says again.
Miles taps Eric’s palette. “Do you see a blue you like?”
Eric’s hands pause their movement, and he points to a color, his head nodding with the action.
“I love it. Use that one.”
Over the next thirty minutes, we discover that Cinnamon is a hundred times better at painting than I am. Her canvas has a pretty pink sky, a low, setting sun, and a tree. Mine is covered top to bottom in the pinkish-purple hue I’ve mixed up. I kept trying to get my sky right and never added anything else.
“Has everyone finished up?” Miles asks, peering about the room. Lucy wasn’t wrong; he does look like there’s a light bulb within him shining from the inside out.
Cinnamon’s eyes dart to my canvas, and she says, helpful and loud for all to hear, “Nope. Not her.” She points at me with both pointer fingers.
“What if we ended our lesson with a little show?” Miles holds out his hands in question. “Huh? What do you guys think?”
“A show?” Cinnamon beams at Miles, making me a little worried that I’ve got competition. Though the gold band on my finger—the one Ash’s friend brought with her when she married us—reminds me that he is my husband. I’ve got that leg up on Cinnamon.
“Did you guys know that Delaney sings?”
I swallow. My throat goes dry—though I’m not afraid of a crowd.
“She plays the guitar, the banjo, the piano, and she sings like an angel.”
An angel? I mean, I’m good. But an angel?
Cinnamon swivels her head to look at me. I’m ready for a question, or even her disdain, but she only grins and claps those tiny hands together. “He is so handsome.”
A laugh bubbles from my lips. “You’re right, Cinnamon. He is.”
“Laney?” he says, peering at me from across the class.
I walk over to where he stands and wrinkle my face, pretending only for a minute to be put out.
“Do you mind?” he says, picking up my guitar that leans against the wall. I practiced here early today before everyone came, and maybe Miles liked what he heard.
I sigh—dramatically—but let him off the hook all too quickly. “I guess not.”
Miles grins, and Cinnamon is not wrong—my husband is a looker. He leans down and softly pecks my cheek. The stubble from his five o’clock shadow grates my cheek and tickles my skin. I’m so tempted to pull a Grandpa Vaughn on him again and whip my head about, surprising him with my lips.
But I don’t. Not in front of his students. Not with Cinnamon watching. She might fight me for him. And as tiny as she is, there is something fierce inside of her. We’d fight and I’d lose.
Though his sweet blush might be worth the fight.
Instead, I sit on the stool that Miles pulled up for me and strum a chord on my guitar. I don’t have a mic and I’m not hooked up to any amp. I also don’t pick a Judys song. This audience isn’t going to stone or judge me.
I try out one that’s newly written, one that I finished last night after spending all evening with Miles’ family. And right before I fell asleep next to him, breathing him in and feeling the warmth from his body only inches from mine. It’s all strangely fueling my writing.
I’m not even sure I’ll remember all the words or notes—it’s so new. But I strum the first chord and feel the folk in my soul.
This is right.
This is what I’m supposed to be doing.
I don’t even care that the two aides in the back have their phones raised and are surely recording this free show. I just sing. I sing about love and loss and finding love again. And when my voice cracks, I feel the anguish and hope of each and every word.
My small audience claps enthusiastically. Walt even gives me a “Woot! Woot!”
But I look for Miles—he stands to the side, tears in his eyes, and somehow that pleases me more than anything. I wrote this song with my whole heart and soul. Singing it now, I feel the music and lyrics to my core. And so does he.
“A
sh, that was literally an hour ago. You’re saying—”
“I’m saying whoever posted that video of you should be sent a great big thank you bouquet.” She pauses. “It’s blowing up, Lane. And people are liking what they see. This is working. You and Miles. Even the studio—it’s out that you helped him, that you’re helping his students.”
“But how? I haven’t told anyone, and I know Miles hasn’t either.”
I didn’t do any of that for my image. I helped Miles so that he got something out of this deal too. Simply being seen as married, loved, and wanted was supposed to help my image.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Things don’t stay quiet. You know that.”
“I guess.”
“Either way, I’m in the process of booking you a recording appointment. Afternoon Records wants a sample.”
“The indie label?” My heart starts to thud. This is what I’ve wanted. I just hadn’t expected it to come so fast.
“I’ll need at least one other song, two if you can. Let’s get you back on the radio, girl.”
I blow out two short puffs and pull in one long breath through my nose. “Okay, then. Let’s do this.”