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“You do this every day?”
"Yes, since I was nine years old. I have thirty years of them," I admit. “It’s nearly 12,000 drawings on 3x5 inch pages just like this in the same type of notebook with the same ink pen. Some days I drew more than once.”
"Easton.” Amazement fills her tone. “I bet it's fascinating to see the progression of your skills and your life. It's one of the most creative daily diaries that I've ever seen.”
“Maybe I’ll show you the collection one day, from the very beginning to right now.”
“I’d be honored,” she says. “I’d love that.”
I hesitate, wondering if I should share this with her, knowing I don’t want any secrets between us. No secrets means no future surprises. I want to share every part of me with her, even the ones that don’t shine like gold. “I started sketching because I couldn’t speak freely like other kids my age.
She glances down at the page. “Really? I’d have never guessed.”
I smile. “It took years of hard work and practice.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult it was to want to communicate and not being able to.”
“It was a fucking nightmare. It felt like prison because I knew what I wanted to convey but couldn’t. I was frustrated during my adolescent years, but I was determined not to let that stop me. Between my daily lessons, I’d turned to drawing because it was the only thing that calmed my busy mind.”
She nods and listens as I focus on the view.
“I just remember whispering a lot in my brother’s ear and he’d act as my voice in social situations. Weston was the only person I trusted. Still true today.”
“I understand why. He's a protector. From the little time I spent with him, I could tell he has your best interest at heart.” She meets my eyes. “So what about now? Do you get nervous when you’re in front of a crowd?”
“Sometimes,” I say, realizing she actually cares enough to ask questions. “But I’ve learned to compartmentalize it, perform, if you will. More times than not, I’m uncomfortable. I learned that I can do hard things, and afterward, I sit in a quiet roomand decompress. Overstimulation from social situations is very much my kryptonite.”
“I get it.” She bumps my shoulder. “You’re a pro. I’m amazed by your resilience. Not to mention your ability to stay consistent. Most people outgrow their childhood hobbies, but you’ve made it your life's work.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that.” I actually feel relieved sharing that part of me with her. Lexi accepted it, accepted me and my vulnerabilities without judgment. She’s…perfect.
I return the conversation back to my original question. “That's enough about me. What did you want to be?”
“Don’t laugh,” she says.
“I won’t.”
She lets it out in one breath. “I wanted to be a magician’s assistant.”
I hold back my laughter and keep most of it in. She bumps me with her shoulder.
“I liked the one who had knives thrown at her head and walked away, unscathed, like a standing miracle. When I was older, I wanted to be an actual magician but realized I didn’t have the skill for it.”
“Because you have bad timing and suck at surprises?”
She smiles. “How’d you guess? But I realized after a while, I only wanted to be the center of attention and be appreciated by an audience. Change some lives with my performance. I dunno; it meant something to me.”
“You do that now,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“When we went to Samuel and Heather’s engagement party?—”
“You did that,” she confirms. “When you enter a space, it’s like you suck the air from the room.”
“Not around my friends and colleagues. They’re as unfazed by me as you are.”
I can almost see the gears running in her head, but it’s true. That night, eyes were onher, not me.