Page 87

“Mimi, you’re an enigma.” I smiled. Had she been an adventurer? Did she climb mountains and plant flags? If it weren’t so late, I’d have gone into the attic and scoured photo albums. I needed proof that she’d been even more extraordinary than I remembered.

Walking into the living room, I smacked into the arch.

I stopped, shaking my head. If my clumsiness didn’t border on tragic, I’d think the arch moved.

Add to the many phantom bumps and bruises I acquired from having two left feet.

I plopped down on the couch. I’d forgotten she didn’t have a television.

She didn’t mind the idea, but she’d always claimed she’d rather live than watch people living.

Gladys’s revelation took Mimi’s statement to a whole new level.

I had no choice but to settle in for the night.

Firefly didn’t have late-night bars or restaurants.

The town shut down when the sun vanished.

During the day, it might be quaint, but at night, it turned positively boring.

I couldn’t wait to return to Portland and not be trapped inside.

What I wouldn’t give for a lively late-night coffee shop.

Amanda had left a stack of sketchbooks on the coffee table.

The top one had a worn, scuffed cover, its edges softened by years of use.

I ran my thumb over the rough texture, feeling the slight grit of the paper beneath my fingers.

She’d gone through them all, commenting and critiquing my work.

She’d pause and complain about my talent.

More than once, she threatened to rope me into one of her comic projects.

I stared at the brown cover before giving in.

It had been so long that I couldn’t recall what was inside.

Flipping it open, I was met with the first sketch: a portrait of Jason from my old crush phase.

Of course. It had everything but the little hearts around it.

He had his nose in a comic, his eyes wide as he discovered Prime had saved the day by sacrificing himself.

“Wow,” I muttered, turning the page. Bits of paper hung from the spine where I’d torn out sketches. I’d been too afraid at the time to give Jason his portrait, but I’d left others where the models could find them. There must have been dozens of missing pages.

When I turned the blank page, I gasped. Evie sat at the dining room table, her college algebra textbook open. It should’ve made me cringe, but she loved numbers. I considered it the first moment when she believed she’d make it through school.

I brushed my fingers along the paper, feeling the coarse surface. Holding my breath, my heart pounded as I turned the page.

“Mom,” I whispered. She sat on the couch, holding a book. Her face always gave away if the heroine kicked ass, found herself in danger, or was naked in the arms of a lover. Any quiet moment, she had a book in her hands.

I spotted the hand on her leg. Turning, I found her partner in crime. While she read about heroines off on adventures, Dad had his nose in a romance novel. Unlike her, he had a steely gaze that didn’t give away what happened on the page.

I tore the pages from the notebook like I used to. I set them on the coffee table, overlapping them so it appeared as if they shared the couch. The fact they’d been in my sketchbook meant they had never seen them. I wish they saw themselves through my eyes.

“Radical love,” I whispered.

I’d been terrified the first time I’d left a sketch behind. Would they think I was creepy, watching them in their element? Or would they see it for what it was—an attempt to capture a person pursuing their passions? I’d wanted to believe people hung them on walls as reminders to do what they loved.

I flipped the page, surprised the portrait of Mimi had gone missing.

Brushing my fingers over the paper, I could feel the indentations of what had been my favorite portrait of her.

It had been her sitting in a housecoat with her knitting needles, furiously working on another pair of mittens.

I’d thought I’d captured her passion, but after talking to Gladys, I realized I’d missed the mark.

London.

I poked at the spine, freeing a pencil. To my surprise, twenty years hadn’t broken the tip.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat down and sketched.

At some point, I’d given it up to focus on “serious” pursuits.

I rolled it between my fingers, spinning it about before it fell into place.

It felt like shaking hands with an old friend.

Blocking out her form, I could see Mimi’s outline and the start of the Tower Bridge behind her. I grabbed the sketchbook, curling up against the arm of the couch. When I closed my eyes, I imagined her staring at Big Ben, debating how she could drag it home.

This time, I wanted to do her justice. As her features came into view, I couldn’t help but smile.

The radical love concept worked both ways.

The moment I spotted her cheeks, it felt like a warm hug.

I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed sitting and watching lines turn into objects and objects into people.

It’d be a late night. I owed myself some radical love.