“There she is,” Vanessa said, hugging me tightly. “You look tired, Nor. You sleeping okay?”
“I sleep fine.”
Vanessa glanced at the faint streak of blue paint near my wrist.
“You need to stop hiding your work.”
“You’re painting again.”
I tugged my sleeve down.
“Just messing around.”
“You always say that. You know I still have that lake painting? It’s the first thing people ask about when they come over.”
“Then you need more interesting friends.”
Rooms simply tilted toward her.
She laughed.
“Or you need to stop hiding your work.”
Greg pulled out a chair for her, and she thanked him with a bright laugh. Then they exchanged a quick look over my head, the kind that vanished the second I noticed it.
My stomach did that small, familiar thing it always did.
I was eleven the first time I understood it. I’d spent three weeks painting the willow behind our house for a school art show, every leaf done one at a time. Six-year-old Vanessa taped a purple horse beside mine.
