“But…” That sad look in his eyes broke my heart. “My job…”
It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I’d finally started feeling what it was like to have my own life, a new sense of autonomy. I’d finally been able to contribute to the rent—well, really, I just used my money to grocery shop for the week. John refused to take my money so I snuck it in that way.
“Just think about it.” Dale kissed me softly on the lips.
“You won’t need to think about it.” Greg stood, picking his leather briefcase up off the floor. I watched as he set it flat on the table and opened the gold tabs. “Because you’re not going. No girls on tour. Here’s your copy of Billboard.”
I couldn’t resist. I ran over to pick it up, and there it was, right at the top.
I Will Always Come For You - Black Diamond
“I’ve got to run. I’m late for my next appointment.” Greg snapped his briefcase closed. “Would you two please, please stay out of trouble?”
Greg was looking at Dale, not me, so I dared to stick my tongue out. But I pulled it quickly back in when the manager glanced over at John.
“Please? We’ve got a few months until the tour. Just keep them under wraps until then, eh, John?”
“I’ll do my best.” John shrugged one shoulder in response.
He left and we all stood there looking at each other, grinning like idiots.
“Number one.” Dale whispered.
“Look!” I took the paper over to show him. I couldn’t stop smiling.
“That’s one dream come true.” John smiled too, coming over to give Dale a hug. “I’m so proud of you, son.”
That brought tears to my eyes. I think even Dale’s eyes were a little shiny when they let go. John saw me tearing up and leaned over to kiss my cheek as they started to fall.
“You’re a good girl, Sara. You didn’t do anything wrong. And whatever dirt they decide to dig up, it doesn’t reflect on you. You understand?”
I nodded, even though I didn’t quite believe him. It was going to reflect on all of us and I dreaded it. I didn’t want anyone else to be hurt by it, least of all Dale and John. They were the only two men I’d ever felt I could really trust.
“Oh crap!” I glanced at the clock on the microwave. “I’m going to be late for work!”
Dale sighed as I ran over and grabbed my car keys out of the dish on the table by the door—thankfully I’d only been carrying a small clutch at the wedding with some tissue and a little bit of cash in it. John had taken his car to the wedding, so my keys where right where they should have been.
I ran back to give Dale another kiss, full on the lips. He folded me in, his mouth reminding me of our night together, our homecoming. I wanted him so much in that moment I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Sure you don’t want to call in?” he breathed when we parted. I stared at those sweet, pouty lips, my tummy doing slow flips as I remembered his mouth on me. Everywhere.
“I can’t.” I groaned, pulling myself reluctantly away. “I’ll be home around five.”
“Spaghetti for dinner,” John called.
“Yum!” I opened the door, glancing back over my shoulder. Dale was looking after me with longing eyes. “Number one!”
Then he smiled. It was slow to start, but then he was grinning, the light back in his eyes.
That was how I left him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Everybody tells artists that art school is a waste of time. For most artists, that seems to hold true. If you’re truly an artist, you’ll do it because you’re compelled to do it, not because it’s your “major.” If you’re not, it will end up as either a job or a hobby. Most artists are hacks. They sell out for the money and work in advertising where corporate executives dictate their lives, forcing them to draw happy families in front of brand new cars. The artists who end up practicing art as a hobby are usually happier but far poorer. Those are the artists you see airbrushing t-shirts at the local fair.
I went to art school because I wasn’t good at anything else except drawing, but everybody was right. It was a waste of time in that it didn’t prepare me to go out into the world and make a living as an artist. Art school didn’t guarantee me a job or even make me more attractive to potential employers. What it did do, no one ever could have told me and I never would have expected. Art school didn’t teach me how to draw—art school taught me how to see.
“I don’t know how you do it.” Josh had a way of sneaking up on me, quiet as a cat.