Slowly, the dean shakes her head.
I tilt my head back and let out a heavy sigh. I can’t believe Deacon Pratt took that balloon, gave it a nasty makeover and submitted it as his own. I can’t believe he even wants to go to art school.
Working for the Pratts really is a dead-end job. And—insult to injury—this means my asshole father was right.
“Kieran,” the dean says. “Why don’t you tell me about the version in your portfolio.”
“Sure,” I say woodenly. “I drew the version in my portfolio. It’s in there because I wanted to include something I’d done in ink on paper. They wanted it to look handmade, so I freehanded it. But you can see it’s not the best.” I feel deflated, though. This woman is probably suspicious of everything coming out of the Pratt Agency now.
I hate my life.
“I liked your version better,” she says gently. “I suppose you can guess where this other one came from.”
“Sure.” My voice is flat. “There aren’t that many suspects.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have brought it up. But I needed to know why I received two very similar portfolios.”
I sit up a little straighter in my chair. “Are there more like this?”
She nabs the other portfolio off the table and sets it on the floor on her side of the desk. “Yes. But I’m not going to show you. It will only make you angry. It’s obvious who is coming up with the ideas, and who is just tarting them up.”
A wave of nausea rolls through me. “Crap. This isn’t how I wanted this interview to go,” I say in a rare burst of candidness.
“I bet. But take a deep breath, okay? You did a nice job explaining your process to me. And I’ve been admiring that farmers’ market poster for two years now.”
“Yeah?” I smile in spite of myself.
“Of course. It’s cheery. And now I’ve met the artist, so I like it even more.” She flips my portfolio closed, then hands it to me. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Kieran. In a couple of days, you’ll receive notification about your application. But if you’re accepted, your financial aid award won’t arrive for another couple of weeks, okay? I’m asking the financial aid office to squeeze in your application, even though it’s past the deadline. I hope that works.”
“Me too,” I say. “And thank you.” I stand up and shake her hand. I make all the right polite noises.
But if that financial aid doesn’t come through, this was a waste of time.
“How’d it go?” is how Roddy answers his phone.
“It went okay,” I say, staring up at an impossibly blue sky. “If they take me, I’m going to go.”
“Yaaaas!” he thunders into my ear. “This is so exciting.”
I smile, because his voice makes me happy. I still don’t know if art school is the right choice for me. But if I get to go home to him every night, it might not matter. “I have to swing through Montpelier on the way home,” I tell him now. “What should I pick up for dinner?”
“Let’s make a lasagna.”
“Sounds good.” Cooking anything with Roddy is always good.
“Bring home a couple pounds of ground meat, a box of those flat noodles, and... Got a pen? I have big ideas.”
“How about you text your big ideas to me while I drive to the store?”
“An excellent idea, hunk. This is going to be great.”
I already know it’s true.
Kieran
On Christmas morning I wake up alone. Music rises from downstairs, along with the beckoning scents of coffee and frying bacon. It’s only seven, and I don’t have to be anywhere for once in my life. I could roll over and go back to sleep.
Except bacon.
I get up, shuffle into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and then trundle downstairs. Roderick is making French toast and singing away to Jane’s Addiction.
“Hey!” he says, flashing me a quick smile. “Do you have the timing or what? I’m making French toast. Want to help?” He’s wearing sweatpants, messy hair, and my oldest flannel shirt. “Have you made this before? It’s easy.” He glances at me over his shoulder.
“What? No. Show me.” I put my arms around his waist and look down at the counter. He’s got some bread soaking in a dish full of an eggy mixture.
“It’s a great way to use up stale bread. And it’s eggier than pancakes, so there’s more protein.”
“Nice,” I say, kissing the back of his neck. This must be why people like Christmas. I get it now.
“I use a little cinnamon in the custard. But that’s really it. If you start with good bread, the flavor takes care of itself.” He uses both hands to flip one soaked slice of bread into the skillet, where it sizzles. Then he turns his head to speak to me. “Your cuddle game has seriously improved. I’m so impressed. Top marks from the Russian judge.”
I laugh into his neck and kiss him again. “I have a Christmas present for you to unwrap.”
“Is it in your pants?” He nudges his ass against my crotch, and my body does not fail to take the hint. “I love opening presents,” he teases.
“No, it’s under the tree.”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You flip the French toast, and I’m going to grab your present out of my car.” He turns around in my arms, kisses me, then slides away to dart outside.
I tap my foot to his loud alt-rock and wonder how my life became so fantastic.
“Oh my God,” Roddy says a few minutes later as he drops to his knees in front of our Christmas tree. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yeah. Some things just can’t be wrapped.” I take a big bite of French toast. It’s terrific—crunchy on the outside with a custardy center.
Meanwhile, Roddy pounces on the guitar case under the tree, untying the bow I lamely strung around one end. “I can’t believe you did this! Please tell me you got a good deal on a secondhand instrument.”
“I bought it new,” I confess. Secondhand for a gift just didn’t feel right. “I hope it’s the right style.”
He lifts the lid. “It’s awesome. God. So much nicer than my old one. You really shouldn’t have done this.”
“I wanted to,” I say before casually stuffing my face with more breakfast. The fact that he’s so excited does unusual things to my heart. He looks, as they say, like a kid on Christmas, as he lifts the guitar out of its case and runs a thumb across the strings.
The deep tones give me a shiver. It really does sound good. I’ve never been happier to spend four hundred dollars in my life.
Forgetting his breakfast, Roderick fusses with the tuning. And then he launches into a pretty riff, right there on the rug.
I give a low whistle. “I thought you said you weren’t very good?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not Nashville good. But I sure like to play. Kieran, seriously, this is just amazing.” He lets out a happy little sigh and then carefully tucks the guitar back into its case. “My present for you isn’t as fancy.”