CHAPTER NINE
Bluebird of Happiness
I have about a million crises crashing in at once. Drafts to schedule, a collab I should care about, and a digital audience slipping through my fingers faster than I can pretend everything’s fine.
And a brother who, out of nowhere, asked me to help him create a naturescape.
Which, if I had to guess, was definitely Brooks’ idea. Jasper never asks for anything.
I rub my tired eyes and scroll through Big Belle’s pitch again, my vision blurring from equal parts exhaustion and frustration. Southern roots. Family. Friendship. Fried foods. She wants us to lean into nostalgia, tell stories about growing up in the heart of the country.
I’ve never thought of the place that raised me as the South. Arkansas may have country charm like Belle’s Kentucky, but it’s never felt like my identity. My brand is West Coast cool. Sunsets and iced matcha. Not… biscuits and gravy.
I set my phone down and press my fingers against my temples.
Is this really where my career is going?
Is this what I want?
I close out the email and push my laptop aside, exhaling slowly as I stretch my arms above my head. The tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease. If anything, it settles deeper.
I have too much on my plate. Too many expectations, too many people pulling me in different directions.
And that’s exactly why I left in the first place.
I wanted something different. Something better. Brighter. More… me.
But as I stand in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by remnants of the girl I used to be, I wonder: was that really why I left? Or was it just easier to run than to stay and figure out where I actually belonged?
A soft knock pulls me from my thoughts. I turn to find Brooks leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a stupid smirk on his face.
"You ready?"
I clear my throat, straightening even though I feel anything but steady.
"Yeah," I say.
"Jasper’s all set up," Brooks returns, his voice quieter than usual. "He wants to know if you want to go live with him, or just help out behind the scenes."
"Does Jasper want to know, or do you?"
Brooks’ grin says it all. "I’ll take that as a no."
"I never said that," I shoot back, narrowing my eyes.
He exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I know this is hard for you to believe, but all I want is for Jasper to succeed. If I wanted to be famous like you, I’d have started my own account."
His words hit harder than I expect, settling uncomfortably in my chest. I swallow, my heart a jumbled mess. "I want him to succeed, too."
Brooks nods, his gaze steady. "Then let’s work together to help him."
I hesitate, my eyes drifting toward the window where I can just make out Jasper hunched over his latest project outside.
He isn’t made for a nine-to-five job. He’s not the kind of person who wants to be front and center on a camera, performing for likes and follows.
He likes the woods, the quiet, the simple things—campfires, collecting rocks, and hiking up the mountain just to watch the sunrise.
And somehow, Brooks—Jasper’s best friend, my childhood nuisance, the guy who’s always had something to say to get under my skin—found a way to bring my brother’s art to a platform where thousands of people see it every day.
Who does that? Who spends this much time helping someone else succeed?
I turn back to Brooks, my throat tight. "Thank you," I say, softer than I mean to.
He tilts his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "For?"
I inhale slowly, steadying myself before I meet his eyes. "For believing in him. When… you know, I wasn’t around to."
For once, Brooks doesn’t have a witty comeback, no sarcastic remark waiting on the tip of his tongue. He just holds my gaze, something indecipherable flickering there before he finally nods.
"Okay," he says simply.
I decide I’d rather just be an extra set of hands than go live myself. Jasper doesn’t need me to boost his views or help him get likes. He’s doing that all on his own. He’s talented. Far more talented than anyone I know.
Jasper hands me a pinecone. "Here you go."
I stare at it, turning it over in my palm as Brooks adjusts the ring light overhead. We’re working outside, setting up for a new naturescape in the warm, golden light of late afternoon. The sun filters through the trees, casting dappled shadows over the makeshift worktable Jasper has set up.
"Start tearing it apart," Jasper instructs, barely looking up as he arranges his tools.
I hesitate before carefully trying to pick off one of the rigid scales, unsure of what I’m supposed to be doing.
A low chuckle comes from beside me. "What exactly are you doing?" Brooks whispers, the words laced with amusement.
I glance over at him, my fingers still fumbling with the pinecone. "Uh… tearing it apart?"
His lips twitch like he’s holding back laughter. "That’s one way of doing it."
Jasper, unfazed by our exchange, methodically sets up his workspace.
Tweezers, nails, glue, pliers—tools I had no idea he even needed to create an image.
Watching him prepare everything with such precision is…
fascinating. I always assumed his art was effortless, that he just gathered things from the woods and arranged them until they looked pretty. But there’s so much more to it.
"We’re going live in three," Brooks warns, his fingers adjusting the camera. "Two. One."
I shift my weight, gnawing on my lower lip as the stream begins.
Jasper doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the blue feather I found on our hike this morning and places it at the center of the canvas.
Then, with careful hands, he scatters tiny blue petals around it, layering them with the same intent and precision as a painter selecting the first strokes of a masterpiece.
I still don’t know what he’s creating.
But as I watch him work, I realize something: this isn’t just a hobby to him. It’s not just playing with leaves and rocks and pinecones.
This is art.
And for the first time, I see it for what it really is.
We work through the afternoon, the warm sunlight shifting as it filters through the trees. Jasper gives quiet instructions, telling me where to place things, showing me how to maneuver each delicate piece until it fits seamlessly into the image taking shape.
At first it’s just fragments. A feather. Petals. Bark. But when I step back, a picture emerges.
A bluebird.
He made a bluebird.
I blink, breath shallow. It’s not just a pretty image. It’s a message. One I didn’t even know I needed.
The feather I found this morning forms the soft curve of its body, while the tiny petals become the layered texture of its wings.
A minuscule black pebble, no bigger than a grain of sand, serves as the eye, sharp and bright.
Jasper has carefully whittled slivers of bark into the shape of a beak, each piece precise, intentional.
And then, with the steady patience of someone who understands the language of nature better than most people understand words, my brother begins placing pinecone scales on the canvas—one by one—each jagged edge becoming part of a branch.
I barely breathe as I watch him work, his hands moving with delicate certainty.
How did I never notice it before? The way he sees the world differently, not as random pieces but as something whole, something waiting to be assembled into art?
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight.
Jasper isn’t just talented. He’s extraordinary. I… I don’t know if I’ve ever really seen him before. Not in this light.
"You like it?" Jasper asks, glancing up from the canvas just long enough to catch the look on my face.
I shake my head slowly. "No." His expression falters for a split second before I add, "I love it."
Relief flashes across his face before he gives me a genuine smile. "I was inspired by you." The words land, pressing into me like a weight I’m not sure I deserve.
My hand instinctively finds my chest, as if that could steady the rattling in my heart. "I’m the inspiration for this piece?"
Jasper nods. "I’m calling it Bluebird of Happiness." He carefully places a pinecone scale on the canvas before looking up at me again. "Did you know bluebirds symbolize happiness and good fortune?"
I shake my head, my throat tight. "No, I didn’t."
Jasper doesn’t say anything after that. He just keeps working, the soft rustle of pine needles underfoot and the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence.
We stay like that, watching as the sun sinks behind the trees and the first fireflies blink into existence, their soft glow flickering against the twilight.
"All done," Jasper announces, standing back as he takes in his finished piece.
"Bluebird of Happiness," I repeat, the name settling in my heart like something meant to be there all along.
"Bluebird of Happiness," he echoes.
Brooks quietly ends the livestream, and Jasper meticulously begins packing up his things.
I watch as he carefully sorts each material into its designated bin, the labels neatly scrawled in his handwriting: Leaves.
Twigs. Rocks. Gravel. Pine needles. Pinecones.
There are more, but the light is fading too fast for me to make them out.
"Can I help?" I ask.
He waves me off. "I like to do it myself. It’s kind of a…"
"Ritual?" I offer.
He shrugs. "Sort of. Just a few minutes of quiet now that it’s done."
I nod, understanding. Some things aren’t meant to be rushed.
Taking the hint, I step onto the porch as Brooks finishes packing up the camera and ring light. He grabs Jasper’s phone from the makeshift wooden and velcro stand, types something quickly, then locks the screen before handing it back to him.
Then, with an easy stride, he makes his way over to me.
"Did you have fun?" Brooks asks, no hint of the usual teasing in his tone.
I nod. "Yeah. I did."
His lips press together in a knowing smile. "I’ve never seen Jasper so happy," he says after a beat. "He really enjoyed doing that with you."
I shift under the weight of his words. "It was fun."
Brooks clicks his tongue, then stretches his arms overhead. "Well, I’ve got a date I’m already late for, so I’m heading out. See you tomorrow?"
I tilt my head, curiosity piqued. "A date?"
His smirk is infuriating. "Wouldn’t you like to know."
I cross my arms. "I would, actually."
He takes a step back, his eyes glinting with something indecipherable. Then, with that signature smugness, he says, "Don’t worry, Ellie. You’ll always be my first crush."
And before I can fire back a response, he’s hopping off the porch and strolling toward his stupid truck, leaving me standing there, staring after him, more rattled than I’d like to admit.