Page 16 of 11 Cowboys

“I write,” she says calmly, approaching him with the brush. “And sometimes I clean up messy sentences instead of messy rooms.”

He considers this. “So you’re like a housekeeper for words?”

She winks. “Exactly.”

I shift in my chair, catching the way the light cuts across her cheekbone. There’s a softness in it, a treatment I’d like to replicate with paint.

Grace laughs in a way that’s real and unguarded, and I let my pencil move, following light and angles and instinct. I’m following her.

Grace is good with the kids. They orbit her like she’s magnetic with her no-nonsense approach and calm clarity that makes the space around her feel safe. Even Eli, who guards her hair like it contains nesting endangered species, lets Grace comb and braid it without a single protest. No tears. No flinching. It’s... emotional art.

“Did you grow up around kids?” I ask, keeping my eyes down.

Grace glances at me, still combing. “My mom is a foster mother. Our house was always full.”

Makes sense. There’s a practiced calm to the way she approaches their constant questions and demands. She finishes with a twist of the band around her wrist. “Do you draw for work?”

“No.”

“For pleasure?”

I shrug. “I draw to see clearer.”

She lets my comment float in the air between us, like a feather that hasn’t decided whether to soar in an updraft or fall ungracefully to the dirt. Then she glances down at Matty’s picture, which is an impossible mix of unicorn and toaster, and praises it like it’s hanging in a gallery. Then, she starts her own sideways sketch.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks.

“Seventeen years.”

She nods, letting the pencil scratch shapes onto the paper in front of Matty. “Did you ever want to leave?”

That’s not the question I expected her to ask next. In the past, people wanted to know the circumstances that brought us to live with our grandparents and what that was like.Trauma probing. Instead of digging around about the car wreck that stole all our living parents, Grace focuses on how I feel about still being here after all these years.

“I’ve thought about it.”

“What would you be doing if you weren’t here?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s always been my problem. I can’t imagine a life without my brothers and cousins and their kids, where I’m stepping out on my own. What would that even look like? My nana used to tell me that the world is my oyster, but I’ve never even seen the sea or tasted shellfish. The world outside these fences feels big and strange. I pause my sketching.

She’s trying to draw me with questions.

“You taking notes in your head?” I ask, finally looking up.

Her eyes meet mine. Open. Warm. Clever.

“Always.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “I think you’re dangerous with or without a notebook.”

She stands, brushes off her jeans, and crosses the room. I sit up too fast, catching the shift in her intention a beat too late.

She’s at my shoulder before I can slide the sketchpad shut, resting next to me on one knee. My hand moves to cover what I’ve drawn, but she catches my wrist, gently peeling back my fingers to uncover more than a sketch.

“That’s me,” she whispers.

“Yeah.” My cheeks feel warm. The portrait reflects my attraction to her, as much as her beauty.