“From the look on your face, I don't need to ask how it was,” Fleur notes as I shut the door behind Ty.

He's off to pack for the combine. He proclaimed he didn't need to pack, but I needed a breather. I think he understood, but he warned me he was coming back to talk after he was done. The message was that I get a little time to get my head together and then he wants to clear the air.

“Yes, watered my crops, cleared my acne, and obliterated the need to study, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I knew all that already. You two weren't quiet.”

I try not to blush. Fleur has been my roommate for four years. She knows everything about me. Why should I be embarrassed that I was a little noisy? My cheeks heat up anyway.

“So?” I shrug, making my way into the kitchen. I need some sustenance. Sex makes you hungry.

“So why'd you kick him out like he was a mistake you dragged home after an all-night bender?” Fleur follows me. “You're acting like you aren't even friends.”

I grab some sandwich meat and the mayo. Fleur hands me the loaf of bread. “I don't know,” I admit. “Every time I start thinking about what's going on, I start panicking.”

“You need to stop thinking and just enjoy yourself.”

I wish I could. “I’m trying, but I keep thinking of the future and it scares me.” I point my knife at the bread.

She shakes her head and pushes herself up on the counter. “And your reflexive response is to sabotage the whole thing before it even gets off the ground.”

“That's not fair.”

She falls silent while I finish making my sandwich.

“You know, I really hated that you kept working at Marissa's. She always introduced you as Artie's daughter, like you didn't have your own identity.”

“Um, yes,” I say between bites, “and that's exactly how I think I'd feel dating Ty. I'd be Ty's girlfriend, but he wouldn’t even be there mentally. Look how he doesn't eat anything but healthy shit. And he hasn't drunk even a drop since the night of the Championship game.”

“But that's because the draft is coming up. It's the single biggest event in his life.”

“I know, but after that it will be his first NFL game and then his first night game and then his first playoff game.”

“Those are all excuses,” she barks out. “You're a coward, Ara.”

I stop with the sandwich halfway to my mouth. “What? A coward? How can you say that?”

“You're an emotional scaredy-cat. You'd rather hide and play the victim than take control of your life. The thing with Marissa? You allowed that. You could've told her to stop treating you like you were a line on her résumé. And if you end up with Ty, the only way you'll only be his girlfriend is if you don't speak up for yourself.”

My appetite disappears. I slap the half-eaten sandwich on the counter. “You don't know what it's like. Leon adores you. He lives to serve you.”

Fleur calmly picks up my sandwich and takes a tiny nibble. “And Ty'd be the same way if you gave him half a chance, but for all your big talk about wanting to create your own place in the sun, you don't do anything about it. Take Blinkie the Rabbit.”

“What about him?” I have half a mind to rip my food out of her mouth.

“He sits in your notebook. You won't do an official piece and put it in your portfolio. You're like the literal definition of hiding your light under a bushel. Instead of taking the chance of rejection, you'd rather no one see it at all. You'd be doing everyone a favor if you got your head out of your ass.” After throwing those bombs at me, she takes another bite.

Fuming, I grab my sandwich out of her mouth.

“You can make your own damn food.”

“I will.” She hops off the counter.

“I hope you choke on it.” I stomp off to my bedroom.

“I love you, too,” she sing-songs to my back.

In my bedroom, I start throwing stuff around. The bed is a wreck. I snap a sheet off the ground.

“Head out of my ass? I'm a coward? She doesn't know what she's talking about,” I rant. “I'm the only one with my head on straight here. Ty's blinded by his dick, and Fleur…” I pause. I don't know what Fleur's problem is. “She's PMSing,” I conclude.

“I can hear you!” she yells.

Startled, I drop the sheet. Damn, these walls are thin. It's hard to vent when you have to whisper, but I try. Meanwhile I can hear Fleur fucking whistling out in the living room. I huff and puff as I clean the room, muttering about how no one understands me.

Finally, after the room is neatly arranged, I end my childish tantrum and pull out my notebook. I started drawing this two years ago. Every so often, I'd pull it out and doodle in it some more. Only a few people have ever seen it, and only by accident.

I've kept it private because it's not good. It's not that I'm afraid of rejection, but rather I'm realistic. There's nothing wrong with facing your flaws or recognizing that perfect things don't exist in this world.

That doesn't make me lazy or cowardly or afraid. It makes me smart. I flip open the book to the last sketched page. I haven't progressed beyond Blinkie cowering in the corner from Farmer Brown. I trace a finger around his furry face.

Ty's right. No one wants to cheer for the scared rabbit. I grab a pencil off my desk and shade in a couple of front teeth. There, I think. Not so helpless. Ty's suggestion of a sword and horse pop into my head. I draw a stick in the rabbit's mouth and a goat behind Farmer Brown. Not exactly the knight in shining armor, but more fitting for a farm. I giggle over the idea of Ty as a goat.

I finger a corner of my notebook. Would it kill me to show my dad? Gauge his opinion? What’s the worst thing that he’d say? That it’s no good? I already think that. No, I must think it’s worth something because if I really, truly believed it was no good then I wouldn’t be scared of honest criticism. I think it’s decent and am afraid to hear from my dad that it’s not.

I am a coward.

I pick up my phone. I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell Dad about this work. Then I’m going to go to Ty and tell him I love him and see if he runs toward me or away. Because I’m tired of hiding.

Dad picks up on the second ring. I hear road noise. “Hey, Ara, honey. What are you doing right now?”

“Are you driving?”

“I’m just pulling up to your apartment,” he admits.

“What?” I jump to my feet. “I thought you were in New York.”

“I decided to fly home. Stephen was getting tired of me,” he jokes.

“I'm on my way down.” I pull on a knit miniskirt and grab an oversized sweatshirt. It’s Ty’s, of course. I hug it to me. Ty's life and mine are intertwined. I was nuts to think I could separate my feelings for him forever. I wonder if I should text him.

My phone beeps. I raise it and see a text from my dad.

Campus police r behind me. Hurry. I'm not good in enclosed spaces.

I send the eyeroll emoji but abandon the idea of contacting Ty for now. It’s better I see him in person. I jam my feet into a pair of flip-flops, stick my phone in my pocket and, at the last minute, grab my notebook.

Dad gives me a peck on the cheek when I climb into the car.

“When did you fly in? I would’ve met you at the airport.”

“I already had my car here,” he reminds me. “Besides, this way I get to take you to dinner. You hungry?”

I remember my aborted attempt to eat. “Yeah, I am.” He drives over to the Row House. As we climb out of his car, he gestures to the notebook under my arm.

“What's this?”

“Nothing,” I say by habit.

He comes around the front of the car and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You look different.”

Oh God. Am I wearing a sex face? I pat myself self-consciously. “Prettier?” I boast, trying to throw him off the scent.

“Stressed.” He points to my forehead. “You have wrinkles.”

Frantically, I rub my forehead. “Dad. You’re supposed to tell me I'm the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“You are. Only you’re the most beautiful stressed girl in the world. Is this because you were fired?”

My jaw drops and I stop walking. “How did you know? And no, I wasn't fired. I quit.”

Instead of responding, he opens the door to the Row House and ushers me inside. Jeanette greets us. Dad orders the evening special and then hustles me into a booth.

When we sit down, he says, “Dear, the art world is tiny. I know that you no longer work for Marissa, although the word is that you were fired. I also know you got turned down for the jobs in Philly and Dallas.”

“Damn,” I curse softly.

“When were you planning on telling me about this?” He looks distressed.

I feel low. “When I got another job.”

“And how is that going?” he asks.

We both know it's going nowhere so I don't bother to lie. “I'm thinking of applying for a secretarial position or maybe volunteer as a docent.”

He laces his fingers together on the table. Concern is written all over his features. “Why is it that you don't want my help? Are you ashamed of your dad?”

I rear back in surprise. “No. My God, why would you say that?”

“You go by Martin. You hide that I'm related to you. You don't ask for my help and don't even tell me when you quit your job. What's so terrible about being my daughter?”

It had never occurred to me that I would hurt my dad's feelings by trying to succeed without using his connections.

“You won't even share your art with me.”

If I was surprised before, it doesn't even begin to compare to the shock that strikes me at his new revelation.

“How do you know?”

“You left it out during the holidays. I may have sneaked a peek.” He leans forward, full of parental earnestness. “Why haven't you showed it to me?”

I drop my guilty, shamed eyes to my hands. “I don't know. I'm…scared.”

He makes a hurt sound in the back of his throat. God, Fleur was right. I was a coward. A self-centered one at that.

Stiffening my spine, I push the notebook across the table. Jeanette has brought us steaming piles of roast beef on homemade mashed potatoes. I dig in, surprisingly hungry despite how intently my dad is inspecting every page.

He flips through the book slower than it took to draw some of the pages. Finally, he sets it aside and picks up his fork.

“It's very good.”

“You're saying that.”

He slams down his fork. I jerk upright in surprise. “You always do that, Ara.”

“Do what?”

“Downplay yourself. You are a woman of worth. Your art is good. I don't believe it is studio ready, but it will be with more work. It's obvious you only spend a little time on this instead of immersing yourself completely. You need a few classes perhaps and a lot more practice, but you have talent. You'll go nowhere, though, if you don't start valuing your own work. Now, eat your dinner and we will talk about where you should go from here.”

Meekly, I pick up my fork. “Yes, Daddy.”

Inwardly, though, I'm grinning wildly. Dad liked my work and I know it's a truthful, unvarnished opinion because he didn't say I should immediately submit it. He recognized that it had flaws and told me to keep working.

It's what he'd say to anyone.

After dinner, the first thing I want to do is tell Ty. I hug my notebook to my chest and race off to find him.

“He's not here,” Remy says at the front door of their house.

“Is he working out again?”

“No. He said he was going for a walk. He needed some fresh air or something.”

My face falls. Is he having second thoughts? “Okay, will you tell him that I stopped by?”

“Yeah, but Ara…” Remy stops, licks his lips.

“What?” I prompt.

“The combine is a big deal for him. Don't mess with his head too much, okay?”

Chastened, I nod. “I promise. I'll fix it all.”

Remy daps my fist and closes the door.

I have really fucked up, I realize. If I lose Ty, it'll be my own damn fault and no one else's.