pink or purple plants to take to their Moms.” Kevin game me puppy dog eyes and my heart broke for what I knew was coming next. “Except me. I had…dirt. I don’t know if I underwatered them or overwatered them or, hell, dropped the seeds on the floor instead of in the cup. There was just nothing.”
“Aw, poor baby Kevin! That’s the saddest thing ever. And ever since then, you’ve hired someone to do your gardening.”
Kevin laughed. “Something like that.”
“What did you end up giving your mom for Mother’s Day?”
“I made her a book. Ten pieces of computer paper stapled together, with a crayon-drawn picture and poem on each page. It was terrible stuff. But she cried, so there you go.”
“That’s the sweetest.”
“Well, I never really drew after that, either. No way to ever live up to that masterpiece, you know?” While I laughed at his refusal to play with crayons ever again, he parked in front of the main entrance, cut the engine and got out. I waited for him to open my door, and he took my hand to help me out of his car.
Kevin keyed in the code to the front door and stepped aside for me to enter first. I tried to get a sense of Kevin’s personality as he led me down the hall and past a staircase that twisted to a lower level. His walls were painted creamy white and covered with art that I wanted to stop and ponder: photographs of landscapes with blurs in the distance, collages of paper and ink and some kind of thin metallic sheeting, paintings that almost looked like they depicted a person, if I turned my head a certain way. I wondered if he chose the art himself, or if it was the work of a designer.
I turned to Kevin and watched him fiddle with an assortment of switches on the wall. The lights dimmed, then went bright again. Music turned on, then off.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. And still, he struggled to find whichever switch he was looking for. My heart broke a little for him.
“How long have you lived here?”
“I bought the house two years ago.”
He bought it. There was so much more that wasn’t said in those words. How many months in two years he’d spent touring, having no control over his time. Sure, his life held a certain amount of glamour, but he didn’t even know what all the switches in his own house did. What was it like to not, truly, have a home? When the lights above us finally flared to life, I turned back to the art. No, Kevin wouldn’t have picked these out. Decorated his house. I bit my lip to keep back a surprising surge of emotion. Pity, maybe. How lonely was Kevin?
I cleared my throat. Another painting caught my eye. This one was in a frame that didn’t match the other, and it was hung slightly crookedly. Kevin came up behind me.
“Is this one of your crayon masterpieces?” I asked.
“That’s by Payton Smalls.”
My eyebrows lifted in surprise. “He’s another one of the World Wonder guys, right?”
“Yeah. This is what he does in his downtime.”
I studied the pen, ink and watercolor artwork more closely. It was a city street landscape in grays and browns. Slightly grimy, somewhat vintage. “Where is this?”
“London. He did this piece on our first world tour.”
“It’s really good.”
“I’ll pass along the compliment.” Kevin turned me away from the art to face him. “You are beautiful, tonight.” His voice was like fingers, slowly walking up my body. A delicious series of tremors followed, working their way from my toes to my shoulders. “I love that color on you.”
When I opened my mouth to thank Kevin, he raised his finger to my lips, the corners of his eyes scrunching playfully. I smiled, pushing down the laughter that bubbled up. After the unexpected sadness over Kevin’s life—despite him being wealthy, famous and adored—this, being playful, was welcome.
He threaded his fingers through mine and walked me down the hallway to a great room decorated, like the rest of the parts of the house I’d seen,
“Aw, poor baby Kevin! That’s the saddest thing ever. And ever since then, you’ve hired someone to do your gardening.”
Kevin laughed. “Something like that.”
“What did you end up giving your mom for Mother’s Day?”
“I made her a book. Ten pieces of computer paper stapled together, with a crayon-drawn picture and poem on each page. It was terrible stuff. But she cried, so there you go.”
“That’s the sweetest.”
“Well, I never really drew after that, either. No way to ever live up to that masterpiece, you know?” While I laughed at his refusal to play with crayons ever again, he parked in front of the main entrance, cut the engine and got out. I waited for him to open my door, and he took my hand to help me out of his car.
Kevin keyed in the code to the front door and stepped aside for me to enter first. I tried to get a sense of Kevin’s personality as he led me down the hall and past a staircase that twisted to a lower level. His walls were painted creamy white and covered with art that I wanted to stop and ponder: photographs of landscapes with blurs in the distance, collages of paper and ink and some kind of thin metallic sheeting, paintings that almost looked like they depicted a person, if I turned my head a certain way. I wondered if he chose the art himself, or if it was the work of a designer.
I turned to Kevin and watched him fiddle with an assortment of switches on the wall. The lights dimmed, then went bright again. Music turned on, then off.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. And still, he struggled to find whichever switch he was looking for. My heart broke a little for him.
“How long have you lived here?”
“I bought the house two years ago.”
He bought it. There was so much more that wasn’t said in those words. How many months in two years he’d spent touring, having no control over his time. Sure, his life held a certain amount of glamour, but he didn’t even know what all the switches in his own house did. What was it like to not, truly, have a home? When the lights above us finally flared to life, I turned back to the art. No, Kevin wouldn’t have picked these out. Decorated his house. I bit my lip to keep back a surprising surge of emotion. Pity, maybe. How lonely was Kevin?
I cleared my throat. Another painting caught my eye. This one was in a frame that didn’t match the other, and it was hung slightly crookedly. Kevin came up behind me.
“Is this one of your crayon masterpieces?” I asked.
“That’s by Payton Smalls.”
My eyebrows lifted in surprise. “He’s another one of the World Wonder guys, right?”
“Yeah. This is what he does in his downtime.”
I studied the pen, ink and watercolor artwork more closely. It was a city street landscape in grays and browns. Slightly grimy, somewhat vintage. “Where is this?”
“London. He did this piece on our first world tour.”
“It’s really good.”
“I’ll pass along the compliment.” Kevin turned me away from the art to face him. “You are beautiful, tonight.” His voice was like fingers, slowly walking up my body. A delicious series of tremors followed, working their way from my toes to my shoulders. “I love that color on you.”
When I opened my mouth to thank Kevin, he raised his finger to my lips, the corners of his eyes scrunching playfully. I smiled, pushing down the laughter that bubbled up. After the unexpected sadness over Kevin’s life—despite him being wealthy, famous and adored—this, being playful, was welcome.
He threaded his fingers through mine and walked me down the hallway to a great room decorated, like the rest of the parts of the house I’d seen,
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