Page 50 of The Leaving Kind
Cameron was nodding as if he understood.
“What about you?” Victor asked. “Do you draw or perhaps paint?”
Laughter tossed Cam’s head back. The sound was rich and warm and maybe a touch self-depreciating, which suited the Cam that Victor was getting to know. “Nah,” he said. “I stick with what I’m good at. Digging holes and fixing cars. Though, the latter hasn’t been going all that well for me lately.”
Victor considered his model a moment, then flipped to a new page of his sketch pad. He held out his pencil. “Want to try?”
Cam was used to being the subject of focused attention. His brother could become quite fixated when trying to figure stuff out. Stuff having been Cam for nearly a year after he’d returned to Pennsylvania.
Victor’s attention wasn’t like that—or hadn’t been until he’d started drawing. Cam had supposed he’d feel a bit like a vase or a bowl of fruit or whatever it was artists drew when they weren’t asking near strangers to drop their pants. He’d expected Victor to look through him, or around him, or ...
His expectations had totally missed the mark.
Victor’s attention carried weight. Not all of it was substantial—his eyes flicked up and down, over and around. His gaze sometimes alighted quickly and other times fell heavily. Cam’s skin prickled with each and every pass. He didn’t exactly feel turned on, but he could be. If he thought about it.
He was definitely trying not to think about it.
Victor’s expression now, however, and the way he was offering his pencil and drawing pad? Victor was seeing something Cam couldn’t guess at. Seeing something in him.
First instincts were usually correct. Cam immediately obeyed his. He could not draw. Lifting a hand, he offered a quick, dismissive wave. “I’m good.”
“You could be, but you’ll never know if you don’t try,” Victor said.
What the ...
“No, I meant I’m happy not to try.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not an artist. That’s Nick’s job. And Becca’s. She designed all the gardens around our—ah, the house.” Though, to be honest, Cam still thought of the place where he resided as our house, meaning his, Nick’s, and Rebecca’s, though Nick was only holding the deed until Emma turned twenty-one.
One more year.
Given that Emma still had two years of college remaining, Cam reckoned he had a bed and a roof until then. Still ...
“Everyone has the capacity for art.” Victor had lowered the pencil and pulled the pad back onto his lap but hadn’t resumed sketching.
“But is it good art?” Cam asked.
“What do you think is good art?”
“Nick’s houses are amazing.” Cam gestured toward the easels around the studio, the paintings stacked against tables and slotted into wide shelves, and the sketches tacked to the walls. “Your paintings are incredible. But I don’t need to tell you that. I assume you’re making enough money to live comfortably. You know you’re successful.”
Victor shrugged lightly.
Cam frowned. “Is it a trick question, then? Like, whether art is good or not is irrelevant?”
Chuckling, Victor rose from the stool and slid his sketch pad onto a nearby table. “Well, sure. We all have our own sense of taste, some more developed than others. And ‘good’ is a relative term. It’s also kind of loaded. I mean, if it’s not good, is it bad?”
Cam grinned. “Evil art. Art bent on world domination.”
Laughing, now, Victor nodded. “Pretty much an established concept.”
“Heh. I’m sure whatever I tried to draw would fail the evil test. It’d be plain bad.”
Victor tapped the sketch pad. “But you haven’t tried.”
“Because you’re paying me to stand here for your—” Do not say pleasure.