Page 146 of Dante
Dante's grip tightens on my waist.
"What happened to the marine biologist dream?"
"I grew up." A sound escapes me. Not quite a laugh. "I realized I was better at art than science. My mom said I could still paint dolphins if I wanted."
"Did you?"
"Once. For a class project in high school. I painted a dolphin jumping out of the water at sunset. My teacher said it was technically proficient but emotionally distant."
We reach another landing.
The air is getting colder.
"Emotionally distant," Dante repeats. "What does that mean?"
"It means I painted what I saw, not what I felt." I swallow. My throat is dry. "I was good at copying things. Bad at feeling them."
"I don't believe that."
"It's true." My feet keep moving. One step. Another. "I spent my whole childhood thinking about the future. Planning for it. Dreaming about it. But I never really lived in the present. I was always somewhere else."
Dante pushes open a door.
Cold air hits my face.
We're outside.
An alley.
Dark except for a single light above a dumpster.
A black SUV waits at the end.
Engine running.
Headlights off.
"Keep talking," Dante says. "What else did you dream about?"
I try to focus.
Try to pull another memory from the fog.
"When I was twelve, I wanted to be a fashion designer." The words come easier now. "I used to sketch dresses in my notebooks during math class. My teacher caught me once and made me show the whole class."
"Were they good?"
"They were terrible." This time, something almost like a smile tugs at my mouth. "I drew women with necks like giraffes and arms like spaghetti. But I thought they were beautiful."
We're walking toward the SUV.
Dante's pace is steady.
Patient.
Like we have all the time in the world.
"What happened to fashion design?"
