He stood back, letting me see.
“You did this?” I directed a finger. “You and your dad tagged a wall.”
Ares’s eyes lifted, and he proceeded to head to the wall again. He shook up his can, then blended into the art.
The transition was seamless.
He knew this wall obviously, and he was showing me.
“When Dad first took me here, I thought he’d lost his fucking mind.” He directed a look at me. “You saw that fucking trek.”
I did, huffing it the whole way.
I approached him, watching behind. I’d never seen him work right in front of me, and the kid was talented. Like epically. I was good, but he was great.
I really didn’t know how I felt about that. The competitor in me was annoyed, which was silly. I was sure he’d worked with the greats.
“I was in middle school then. Things were kind of rough.” He spoke casually while he sprayed, his back to me. “Dad took me out here to deal with my attitude.”
I recalled him saying his dad was a kind man. If he was, something told me his childhood couldn’t have been that bad. I supposed I didn’t know his mom, though. I mean if she was still around.
I propped hands on my hips. “You got issues with your mom or something.”
“Nah.” He shook his head, turning. He laughed. “I was just a little shit.”
I rolled my eyes.
He tossed me his can. “Come on. It helps. Dad called it illegal art therapy.”
Shaking the can, I took him up on his dare. I got that color going before Ares directed me to take off my bag. He had more cans in there, and I used them.
I painted one of my galaxies, and funny enough, I’d never tagged a wall before. I guessed I hadn’t wanted to deal with the territory shit.
Ares stood behind me for a while, nodding at my work before joining in himself with another spray can. He let loose on the wall, the pair of us doing our thing.
We didn’t talk while we worked, nothing but the sound of our spray paint in the air, and he was right. It was definitely therapeutic.
“What does your mom think about all of this, then?” I asked him, wondering about her. If she wasn’t terrible, why was he such a little shit? I mean, his life seemed pretty fucking good, privileged.
He smiled. “Dad said it was our little secret. My mom would hate this shit. She’s in politics.”
“Is she cool?”
His painting slowed a little but didn’t stop. He was adding to something he’d already started, geometric work. This didn’t surprise me since he said he was into that too.
“She’s the best woman I know. Strong.” He looked at me. “I wish I deserved her. I guess she and my dad got stuck with my attitude. Stuck with me.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, his eyes narrowed. Shaking his can, he proceeded in his therapy, and maybe it did work.
He was telling me things about him too, things about his family and his respect for them. He seemed not to have a lot of that for anyone outside of his friends.
Family, bonds, obviously meant a lot to him, and that reminded me so much of someone.
“Where are your parents now?” I asked, painting too. I needed another distraction. I swallowed. “Just wondering. I mean, you have parties and stuff. Didn’t know if they were workaholics or something.”
That would explain a lot of his aggression, his attitude. I also hadn’t seen his parents at the house, but I hadn’t gone inside recently.
“They work, but they’re not workaholics. They’re actually out of town now.”