3. June #2
“Okay.” Aeron moves to the fridge. He pours himself a glass of orange juice and leans against a cabinet, staying at the periphery of our little circle.
I should say something to him. Pull him into the conversation. But Mom’s already turning back to me, her face lit up with whatever thought she just had.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you. I ran into Professor Harris yesterday, and she said she loved your painting. I bet you could ask if she’d like to purchase it to hang in her office.”
“Why? I can’t beg a teacher to buy my work.”
“You’re not begging, only conducting business.”
“But it’s not meant to be office decoration. It’s art.”
And just like that, we’re off again, me and Mom bouncing back and forth, dissecting what art means and its ultimate purpose, whether Professor Harris’s praise is genuine, whether I should email her or play it cool.
Carter returns to the island and interjects occasionally with dry commentary.
The conversation flows like watercolor across a damp canvas.
At some point, Aeron moves from the counter to the edge of the kitchen island.
He sits on the stool at the very end, the one closest to the archway, and wraps his hands around his glass of orange juice.
He doesn’t say anything. His eyes follow the conversation, moving between me, Mom, and Carter, but he doesn’t jump in.
I keep thinking he will. There’s always a pause, a breath, a moment where someone could speak. But Aeron just watches, and the moment passes. Mom’s then asking me another question and I’m answering. Aeron’s still quiet, simply sitting there.
I wish he’d talk more and contribute something. He’s got opinions about art. Strong ones, actually. Last week he told me that half the work in the student galleries was “emotionally constipated,” which is the kind of savage assessment that should be shared with the group.
But getting words out of my brother is like getting acrylic paint out of a dried tube: kind of impossible.
“Anyway,” Mom is saying, “I should go get ready. Some of us have actual jobs.” She stands, stretching her arms above her head. “Carter, you’re picking up groceries later, right?”
“Yup. Text me the list.”
Mom passes behind my brother. “Aeron, honey, do you have class this morning?”
Aeron turns around, almost startled to be addressed directly. “Yeah. Ten o’clock.”
“Make sure you eat something before you go.” She gestures vaguely at the eggs growing cold on the counter. “There’s plenty.”
“Okay.”
And that’s it. Mom gives my shoulder a squeeze as she passes, drops a kiss on Carter’s head (which he pretends to hate and secretly loves), and disappears down the hallway toward her room. The kitchen feels slightly less warm without her in it.
Carter checks his phone and makes a face. “I should head out too. Got a kinesiology lecture at nine that I should probably actually attend.”
“Wow,” I say. “Commitment to your actual school. Who are you and what have you done with my cousin?”
“Ha ha.” He stands. “Some of us are trying to maintain the illusion of being functional adults.”
“Illusion being the key word.”
“Obviously.” He ruffles my hair as he passes, and I swat his hand. “Good luck with your morning classes, artists.” That last part is aimed at both me and Aeron, who gives a half-nod of acknowledgment.
Then Carter’s gone too, and it’s just me and my brother in the golden kitchen.
Aeron is still sitting at the edge of the island, his orange juice untouched now, his gaze fixed on something beyond the window. He looks smaller than he should, folded in on himself. The morning light that makes everything else feel warm seems to slide right past him.
“Um, how’d you sleep?” I ask, trying to fill the silence.
“Fine,” he says with a shrug. “Kinda crappy, but I guess that’s normal now.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he stands up quickly. “I gotta work on a few things before class,” he says. Then he grabs a plate of eggs and leaves.
I enjoy the colors outside the window for a few minutes, then set my plate in the sink and head upstairs to grab my bag.
The stairs creak in a song this old Victorian has been singing for over a century.
Upstairs, the hallway is lined with framed photos.
There’s also the finger-painted artwork Aeron and I made in elementary school that Mom swore was too precious to throw out.
Fifteen years later, my lopsided rainbow and Aeron’s abstract blob still hang next to her framed counseling certification.
I stopped being embarrassed about it sometime around middle school.
My room is at the end of the hall, the door covered in paint-splatter stickers I put there around age fifteen and never bothered removing.