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It was the worst thing that could have happened.
It was like Gareth.
And Gareth had never painted again.
Chapter Fifteen
Clay almost elbowed Otto out of the way, taking the steps three at a time, Saskia close behind him. He skidded to a halt just outside Dylan’s sacred studio.
A groan welled up from deep in his gut as he surveyed the devastation. Dylan came from a rough neighborhood—a criminal father, an addicted mother. He’d taken a knife to every single canvas in his studio, slashing them to ribbons that fell off their wooden frames.
Clay wanted to fall to his knees and weep. There was only one piece left intact. Dylan had purposely saved it for last. His dragonfly/butterfly/flying cockroach.
Heedless of any danger, Clay stepped into the fray, grabbing Dylan’s arm. Saskia’s gasp rang out behind him. But he had to think only of Dylan now, of what he could say to the boy.
While Dylan was a strong kid, Clay was stronger, and he held Dylan’s arm as he murmured in his ear, “Don’t worry, Dylan. Your work is brilliant. People often don’t recognize that brilliance when they first see a new artist’s work. But I’ll take care of this. I promise.”
Though Dylan’s chest still heaved, the tension in his knife arm lessened, and his words came out in a harsh murmur. “You said I was ready. You said people would love it.” He stared at the as-yet-untouched canvas. “I did it in the dead of night. Just like San Holo. I signed my name.” Finally, he turned tear-filled eyes on Clay.
The sight of this amazing young man’s stricken face cracked his heart wide open. All his blood seemed to drain out of the massive fracture he was sure would never be healed. He had done this to the kid. He had encouraged him.
Only he could fix it.
“They came to see San Holo’s latest,” Dylan got out. “And I—” His voice broke on a sob. “I did mine in the same alley. I wanted it to be a tribute. But people posted a photo of my goddamn stupid flying cockroach all over the internet. They said I’d never be like him. I was a wannabe, and I’d never be anything more. That I’d fade away like all the terrible street artists who thought they could be like Banksy or San Holo.”
Tears leaked from his tormented eyes. With Dylan’s arm slack and the knife falling to the floor, Clay wanted to take the boy into his arms. Yet he was terrified it wasn’t what Dylan needed.
He turned to Saskia in the doorway. His ruptured heart reached out to her, and she understood his anguish, clearly felt the same herself. “Let me talk to him,” she whispered.
It was the right thing. She was so good with Dylan. She would talk him down.
Because Clay didn’t think he could live with himself if she didn’t.
Saskia sat on the only stool in the studio. She half expected Dylan to pick up the knife and slash the last painting.
“Come here,” she said, her tone gentle.
He grumbled back, “I’m not talking to anyone.”
She had to be stern with him and used a rougher, louder voice. “By God, you will talk to me. Turn around.”
He answered in a grumpy teenager’s tone. “Okaaay, man.”
She took his hands in hers. He was a tall young man, but she had a feeling he would grow even taller. He was thin, too, the bones of his wrists standing out. He wasn’t yet eighteen, and he would grow into his body.
Just as he would grow into his talent.
When he didn’t pull away, she said, “Your work is fantastic, no matter what anyone else says. They’re jealous. They see genius, and they can’t handle it. You’re so young, and your work will get even better. You’ll find your own style.” She squeezed his fingers, and when he didn’t squeeze back, she kept talking. “Sometimes what we make isn’t perfect in other people’s eyes. But if you want to be an artist, you need to have a thick skin. Like a cockroach’s carapace.”
Dylan glanced at the door, at Clay who still stood in her periphery, and said with the stubbornness of youth, “No, Clay said he would take care of me.”
She shook her head. “Clay is a wonderful human being and an amazing mentor. He wasn’t wrong in telling you to put your real, brilliant, heartfelt work out into the world.” She paused to let that thought sink in. “But you’re a little ahead of the curve. People didn’t get that they had to see what was in your painting. That it could be a dragonfly or a butterfly or a flying cockroach. Or whatever they needed to see. Their minds were closed.”
She thought of Gareth’s self-portrait, knowing he’d been through the same thing. People hadn’t understood. So he’d stopped painting. She wouldn’t let Dylan do that.
“Until the rest of the world catches up with you, Dylan, it’ll be a rough road.” She had to be real with him, couldn’t spoon-feed him tender words. If she did, he might never make it. “This is just how it is. You have to hear what they say and ignore it. You have to not care.” Just like she hadn’t cared what her parents said. “Not everybody will see your brilliance. Not everyone sees San Holo’s brilliance either.”
He snorted. Here was the moment when she wished she could tell him. She hated lying to Clay, but it broke her heart not to let San Holo speak to Dylan. The way he felt right now, she was afraid he wouldn’t believe her any other way. But she had to test him. “Do you think you can hack it?”