Page 122 of A Little Jaded

“You know, I think you’ve mentioned that a time or two.”

“Now if only I could convince you to believe it.”

She shrugs, then tears her gaze from mine and uses the side of her pencil to add shadows to the right side of the tree. “There’s always room for improvement, but thank you.”

Unable to help myself, I ask, “Did you do this before Drake?”

“Do what?”

“Shy away from compliments.”

Her lips purse. “I don’t shy away from compliments.”

“You do,” I push. “Especially when it comes to your art.” When she stays quiet, I add, “I Googled your dad, you know.”

A stray line of graphite taints the shadow she was working on, and her brows wrinkle with frustration. She sets the wooden pencil on its side and turns to me. “Oh?”

“He’s really good.”

“He is really good,” she agrees. “And with no formal training or anything. It’s kind of insane.”

“Says the girl who also has no formal training,” I point out.

“I mean, my dadisMilo Anders. He taught me everything I know.”

“Maybe not everything.”

With a laugh, she argues, “No, pretty sure it’s everything.”

“All right, let’s say it is,” I concede. “If that’s the case, how come your drawings look nothing like his?”

She frowns and looks down at the tree again. “Rude.”

I laugh. “That’s not what I mean. Humor me for a second, okay?” I reach for my laptop on the coffee table and open it, typing in Milo Anders and tree. Almost instantly, sketchesupon sketches appear, and I click on the top result. Vibrant shades of green and yellow appear, along with a thick, sturdy trunk and roots winding beneath the surface in an intricate pattern. I shift the laptop toward her, making sure she has a front-row seat to the screen. Barely casting it a glance, she reaches for the top of the laptop and starts to close it, but I shift the computer away from her.

“Humor. Me,” I repeat.

With a huff, she asks, “What’s your point, Ev?”

“My point is, your tree looks nothing like your father’s, but both are incredible.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but?—”

“No, buts. You’re talented, Raine. And it's not because of your dad or the things he taught you. Yes, you might not be where you are today without his help, but he isn’t the one holding the pencil. You are.” I tuck her hair behind her ear, praying she’s listening. “You. Raine Anders. No one else.”

I can see it. The way her eyes glaze slightly. Or maybe it’s the firelight dancing in her forest-green gaze playing with me, but I don’t think it is.

No. This means something.

Leaning into my touch, she closes her eyes and whispers, “Thank you.”

“Do you have your machine here?”

Opening her eyes, she tilts her head, confused. “My tattoo machine?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, yes? But?—”