"How did the art stuff go today, Zoey?" Jackie asks as she bowls up steaming tomato soup. Tristan and I, along with our parents, are hovered around the dining table on the side of the kitchen. Mom is plating everyone's grilled cheese sandwiches while Jackie hands out the filled bowls. Erika took a bowl earlier and is now quarantined in her room while she recovers.

"It went really well. They hired me on the spot and I finished a rough sketch on the backdrop." I hand out spoons while still managing not to look at Tristan. There is no business to be had for me looking at him. We're acquaintances. Actually, co-workers, now. The dirty thoughts I was having about him were just a blip. Like accidentally using the wrong shade of white for a cloud painting. It could be wild and exciting during the moment, but when you step back, you realize it's a disaster.

"I've been assigned to help Zoey, so I'll be painting too." The sound of my name from his deep voice makes my nerves jump. Tristan dips his grilled cheese into the red soup before biting into the edge of the sandwich. His firm lips move mesmerizingly slow as he chews. I quickly resume handing out spoons when it hits me that I'm staring.

Ugh.

I'm being ridiculous. I'm a grown woman, not someone who drops her panties just by looking at a man. We had a good time this morning and it turns out Tristan's nice, and just so happens to be very good looking too. But that's it. Get it together, Zoey.

"I didn't know you painted, Tristan. That's amazing." Mom takes a seat by him and fluffs out her napkin gracefully before placing it on her lap. She holds her spoon daintily over her bowl, her winter white, perfectly manicured nails sparkling under the light, as she smiles at him.

"I've only painted apartments before on mission work. Never anything artistic."

"I'm sure the artistic stuff can't be too hard. Zoey does it." Dad grunts out and leans back in his seat. I sigh, sitting down on the cushioned chair next to him. Here we go.

Tristan's mouth opens but I speak first. "Gee thanks for implying I only do easy things, Dad. Makes a girl feel really great." I try keeping the sarcasm light. There's no point getting into it now.

"Well, art is nothing like law, I'll tell you that," Dad says, repeating the same exact words he's said thousands of times before. I roll my eyes and briefly catch a grimace forming on Tristan's face.

"We tried to convince Zoey to get into law school
because she's always one to argue, but she's on her own path. You know, kids these days," Mom explains to her friends. She brings her soup spoon to her lips and blows on the contents.

Trying to keep myself from proving her point about arguing, I bite a huge chunk off of the sandwich and draw in a slow, steady breath through my nostrils. The deliciously sharp cheese melts into my taste buds making me momentarily forget this conversation.

Jackie laughs and her husband Bill leans back with a smile. "Tristan told us a long time ago he wanted to be a baseball announcer and we laughed for ages about it. A lot of kids are like that, going after fun over hard work and money. Thankfully, Tristan got his head on straight and has a great job. He's up for a promotion any day now."

Despite knowing the part about Tristan's current job isn't true, I shrink a little in my seat. Tristan's parents seem to be in the same club as my parents. I'm well aware of their rules. They probably will plan a meal together at Fogo De Chão just to talk about how pathetic I am. Whatever. I've already chosen my path and so what if it's dumb? I'm born to paint.

Still, sitting here listening to how this little club has grown two members...I've officially lost my appetite. And now it's clear why Tristan decided to not tell his parents about his work status.

"How much would you say the best lawyer in the country makes per year, Greg?" Tristan remains completely still while his eyes are zeroed in on my dad from across the round table. I grip my spoon tighter. Is he going to join the Fogo De Chão posse to discuss how my accident a few months ago was a sign from the universe?

"That's a great question. Probably five hundred K."

Tristan snorts and all heads pivot to him. Silence settles over the space as utensils stop hitting ceramic.

"Why's that funny, son?" Bill asks.

"Well." Tristan takes a bite out of his grilled cheese sandwich and chews thoughtfully for a moment, maintaining everyone's attention. I take a moment to assess him. He's wearing a deep olive long sleeved Henley that's taut against his broad chest. The color deepens the green in his eyes. His presence at the small table is wide and large, and very much "adult", making me feel even younger than I am. He swallows his food before continuing. "That's about nineteen million dollars less than one of the best street artists makes per year. So, it's just funny that law is somehow seen as more lucrative." He resumes eating his lunch and my stomach instantly knots. I don't miss the deepened way his jaw ticks when he chews.

How does he know how much Banksy makes? I know that information because those are the things you look up late at night when you're trying to figure out what a dream could entail. But doesn't Tristan work in business? And why is he defending me? He doesn't need to defend me.

"Well, as much as I find this conversation riveting, let's talk about something else, shall we?" I say, looking around at the table. There's this weird energy in the air, like we're teetering between laughing and arguing. Or maybe that's just me?

"Also," annoyance drips from Tristan's voice as he drops his spoon down. "Painting a mural is hard work and is extremely taxing. A person is there for long hours in various positions, which is physically demanding. And not to mention the skill set required even outside of design—spatial awareness, color theory, weather impact. Right, Zoey?" His eyes flash to mine and my body freezes.

"Uhh," is all I manage to let out. My heart is pounding in my chest. No one has ever stood up for me in front of my parents before. Not even my sisters. I have no idea what to do with this piece of information and the fact that he knows so much about mural painting.

"Aren't you glad my head is screwed on straight?" he mock whispers to me with a hand cupped against his mouth and then dishes out a smirk that melts into my bones.

I let out a loud laugh, body instantly relaxing. "Lucky you."

"Tristan," Bill says in what sounds like a warning tone before turning to me. "Sorry, Zoey. That's not what I meant. I'm sure you're figuring things out just fine."

"What did you mean then, Dad?" Tristan asks.

"Let me make it clear that we're not stopping Zoey from chasing her dreams," my dad jumps in with a regretful tone. "But we're also being realistic. That's what parents do. We love Zoey and want what's best for her."

"Alright, alright, let's pin it at that," I say. "Thank you everyone for your concern about my career. Mom and Dad, let's not forget I still have a couple of months left to figure things out. So, let's revisit this when we hit that deadline." Sweat lines my palms. Ten months ago my parents agreed to sponsor me as I figured out my plans. I just didn't expect it to take so long. So much is riding on doing a good job with this Christmas backdrop and getting more work from it.

Multiple people around the table open their mouths as if to speak, but I talk before they can. "Tristan, how was your date with Erika this morning?"

His eyes grow wide as he looks at me. Both of the mothers make their own version of a gasp of excitement, now forgetting all about my inability to succeed.

"A date?" Jackie asks with glee brimming in her voice.

He rubs the back of his neck as he looks between the older women. "Uh, yeah. We went out to the café for a bit and it was going, uh, really well. But then Erika started getting sick so we cut it short."

Really well? Erika must be so happy that it was going 'really well'. That's good. She should be happy.

I gulp, ribs growing tight, and play with the top layer of the crimson soup with the back of my spoon.

"Such a shame she got sick. Hopefully she'll make a quick recovery and you two can hang out some more." Jackie smiles as if she's decreed it to the universe and it's quite aligned.

"Uh, yeah, hopefully."

If I wasn't really looking at Tristan before, I'm certainly looking at him now. Is he as much in love with my sister as she is with him? His gaze catches on mine and for a moment, we just sit there looking at each other. My mom says something to Jackie but the sound is drowned out by curiosity ringing in my ears. So many unspoken thoughts swirl through the air between us like the scent of a potent candle that you can't easily pick out the ingredients from.

As the base of my neck starts to tingle, I'm snapped back to the lunch table. I glance away first and focus on finishing the rest of my food...and not on the man sitting across the table from me.

***

The rest of lunch is thankfully less uncomfortable as my parents recited more stories from their times in college with the Londers. We start cracking up when Mom tells us about when Jackie tried to impress Bill with grilling, but ended up setting a plastic chair on fire. My mother, who is the most calm and collected person I know, was said to have put it out by picking up the burning chair and jumping in the pool with it, versus just throwing the chair in.

Despite the awkwardness earlier, it was nice seeing my parents let loose a little bit. They have a lot of friends but I can clearly see why the Londers are different to them. They're more open, goofier, even. It's a side to them that I don't see as often.

By the time lunch ends, I'm feeling somewhat better than when the meal first started. We discuss plans to take a quick rest before heading out to the town to the Christmas market. I'm grateful for the time alone to unwind as uneasiness still gnaws at me when I think about work and when I replay Tristan's words at the table.

I wash up and head to my room (AKA Tristan's room), leaving everyone downstairs. When I get there, I pull out my phone and plop down on my stomach on top of the bed.

The screen lights up and I start mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. Art, friends, and rug cleaning videos scroll by. I freeze when I see a picture of my ex with a girl...looking pretty comfortable in a hammock together. She's gorgeous with blonde, beachy waves and legs for days, and he looks genuinely happy, with his toothy smile on full display.

They could be friends...

Zooming into their interlocked fingers, my stomach burns slightly. The caption reads, Hard Launch.

Great. Dean has moved on. That's great. And Miss Blonde with the daisy in her hair probably gushes about everything she feels every second of the day to him. Exactly what he likes and needs.

I sigh, taking stock of what it is I'm actually feeling. Contrary to what it might seem like, I'm not jealous. Yes, it's annoying that another person is finding their special someone and I'm here trying to figure out life, but I'm actually glad for Dean. We weren't right together. He was always way too serious and he didn't make me laugh the way Boxer Briefs does.

I find an old photo of Dean on his page where he's at the gym, shirtless, and taking a selfie in the mirror. I used to stare at this picture, practically drooling over it, but now I can honestly say I don't feel anything for the guy. For a moment I picture Tristan at the gym, shirtless, and abs on display. A tingling sensation passes through my stomach.

I'm about to exit out of Instagram when a cat-calling type of whistle behind me makes me jump nearly out of my skin. Locking my phone, I flip over to see Tristan at the doorway, smirking. "If you needed a thirst trap, you could've just asked."