I. Wildflowers in Concrete

Aurora

G iant paper maché dragonflies swing above my head as the buyer in front of me tries to haggle over a statue of a screaming possum. Jarrod, the gallery manager, isn’t having it. “Sir, the artists set their prices. I can’t lower it for you.”

My highlighter yellow nails scrape paint splatter off my hands as I wait not-so-patiently. Finally, the collector buys “Existential Crisis” for full price and gets out of my way.

“Aurora, how are you, love?” Jarrod’s braids gleam with pink threaded through them. Letters covered in rainbow feathers spell out “THE BUZZ” behind his head.

“Great, I got your message about picking up my pieces, but I did finish a few new projects I wanted to show you,” I say, pulling my cracked phone from my back pocket and flicking open the photos app.

Jarrod makes a noncommittal but supportive noise in his throat while he steps through the arch to the storage room and collects my paintings. I tug my bottom lip with my teeth as he sets a stack of unsold paintings on the mosaic countertop between us. The sweet man even replaced my dilapidated cardboard with fresh sheets to protect my artwork.

“I heard a lot of compliments on this collection, and the woman who purchased the daisies was thrilled,” he says.

“I’m so glad,” I say brightly, despite knowing he is placating me. Only selling one work won’t cut it. Smiling, I hold the phone up. “Want to see the new stuff?”

Jarrod swipes, squinting at my still-life paintings of wildflowers growing in concrete cracks. “Interesting imagery,” he murmurs. “Oh, who’s this?”

He swipes to a photograph of a young woman, dark hair spilling over her shoulders and light brown eyes identical to mine, her hands resting on a very pregnant belly. Her partner wraps his tattooed arms around her waist from behind, his dark curls shading his eyes. I’ve never met my sister’s boyfriend, but he seems intense.

“Oh, that’s Hazel, my older sister. She lives in the middle of nowhere up in the mountains.”

“Did she have the baby yet?”

“I don’t think so. But it’ll be any day now,” I say with a cheerful smile that feels strained. I need him to focus on my artwork, not my sister, if I have any chance of getting into next month’s show.

“Boy or girl?” He’s still beaming at the picture.

Shrugging, I run my thumb over the rough edge of the countertop. “It’s going to be a surprise.”

“I love that,” he says, hearts in his eyes. “So I’m guessing you’ll be off to visit her soon?”

“I can’t take off,” I say. “What do you think of the new collection? They’d be perfect for next month’s show.”

Jarrod’s demeanor shifts. “Love, I’m not sure I’ve got the wall space. You know how competitive it is right now.”

I don’t, but I nod along. “Of course, I get it. You’ve been so generous in featuring me at the last few shows. But do you think my audience will miss me if I’m not there?”

“I’ll keep a stack of your business cards on the counter for anyone who asks,” he says. It’s hard to be angry with Jarrod. He’s the nicest guy in the industry, at least in my limited experience. But when I was a fresh, untested art school drop-out, he was the only one who would give me a chance.

“Okay, well, I’ve got some interesting new projects so I’ll be back in a few weeks.” I say with a shrug, sliding my phone back into my pocket.

“You can just email them, hon.” He raises a pierced eyebrow. “Most artists email me and ship stuff. But it’s always nice to see your beautiful face.”

“I live so close and I’d miss you otherwise!” I say, scrunching my nose as I give him my most charming smile.

“Have a good spring break.” He picks up his tablet and resumes his work. I guess I’m dismissed.

Hefting my stack of artwork onto my hip, I pass a line of paintings of blue heeler dogs dressed for different careers and push my hip against the door. It swings open and the chaos of the city street washes over me.

It’s only two blocks to my apartment, past honking cars, clouds of smog and weed, and a shady Italian restaurant that I’m pretty sure is a mafia establishment. That’s why I only get takeout from them and never dine in.

My feet ache from my morning slinging mimosas and margaritas poolside at the trendy hotel another block north. The tourists were rabid over our newest guava kombucha mimosa and I walked away with a couple hundred in tips. Thank goodness, rent is due soon.

With a scraping sound, my key gets me in the back door of the apartment building and out of the afternoon frenzy of downtown Los Angeles. Thankfully the elevator is repaired, because the last thing I want to do is climb five flights of stairs.

Shuffling down the checkered floor, I finally reach my tiny apartment and let myself in, trying to keep my paintings tight under my arm.

“Au-roo-roo!” Jordan croons from the kitchen. “I’m making scrambled eggs, want some?”

It must be nice to sleep in. She’s chipper, bouncing from the stove to the sink and back, her glossy black hair shimmering like a curtain.

“Thanks, that’d be awesome.” Passing her, I head straight for my closet where all my unsold paintings live. These join the stack. Some day they won’t fit in the space, and that is when I will give up on my dreams. But not today.

The eggs are covered in furikake and piled on the thick milk bread her mom sends over every week from their home in Irvine. I eat my portion with a grateful smile. Jordan puts on a ridiculous reality show and we watch feckless D-list celebrities flirt on a beach while we eat our breakfast-dinner. Dinner for me, breakfast for her.

As she’s leaving to get dressed for her evening acting gig, our third roommate arrives home. Devon brings her boyfriend with her, and Tyler winks at me while I scroll through my phone and pretend they aren’t groping each other on our sofa.

Jordan is less tolerant when she emerges, pulling a loose coat over her sparkly jumpsuit. Glitter swirls over her high cheekbones, catching the light as she glares at Tyler. Within seconds, Devon and Jordan are shouting at each other. Tyler wanders into the kitchen for a beer, and I make a run for it before they ask me to weigh in.

Devon and Jordan share the master bedroom and I get the tiny secondary bedroom so I’m able to close my door and put on my ancient headphones. Cranking up my feminine rage soundtrack, I attempt some sketching, but my hand keeps drifting to my phone.

With a sigh, I give up and pull up my sister’s phone number. As much as I deny it, I miss her. Hazel was the responsible one growing up, especially after our father passed. I was the free spirit she had to chase after.

“Hello?” Hazel says, sounding groggy. Oh shit, what time is it there? Only an hour later - it’s barely past dinner time.

“I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” I rush to say, my eyes roaming over the sketches pinned to the wall my bed is pushed against. Since Hazel moved to the mountains, more of my work focuses on pine trees and forest themes.

“Oh, Rory, no. Well, I guess I fell asleep. But it’s all good.”

“Are you getting enough rest? The baby isn’t here yet, right?” Flipping over to lie on my stomach, I turn the page on the sketchbook and start drawing hash marks along the edge of the page.

Hazel’s light laughter floats through the line. “Not yet. But I swear this last month is approximately one hundred and ninety-two days long. Simply existing is uncomfortable!”

“Sorry,” I say, unsure how to comfort a pregnant lady. “So… Can I get your address? I want to send something for the baby.”

“That would be so sweet!” Hazel yawns, and I find myself triggered to yawn too. “I heard that,” she teases with a tired chuckle.

“I’m sure you did,” I mutter. “So did you guys pick out names?”

“Maybe. Well, we are still debating, but we need to decide quickly. Slate has a lot of family names we were considering honoring.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not sharing any of them. You’ll have to wait just like everyone else pestering me.” A masculine laugh sounds through the phone line.

“Slate?” I ask.

Hazel hums her confirmation.

“Well, since he has a nature name, and so does everyone there you’ve mentioned, I guess you have to pick something similar? Might I recommend Pebble. Or maybe Rock.”

Her snort makes me smile. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not naming my baby Rock.” Her partner’s mumbled argument echoes behind her words. “No, babe, she’s joking.”

“You better go talk to your baby daddy,” I say dryly.

“You’d love him. He’s creative, like you,” Hazel replies wistfully.

“Maybe you guys should come visit me.”

“We’ll have to come see Mom eventually,” Hazel says darkly. It’s my turn to hum in agreement. Our mother is not the most functional adult and she threw a huge fit when Hazel moved to that tiny town. The fact it was our dad’s hometown somehow made her more upset. Uncle Heath was able to calm her down, but not before I received seventeen hysterical voicemails and somewhere north of forty text messages.

“Whenever that is, I’ll look forward to it.” Rolling over, I stare at my ceiling fan. She’s probably looking out a window at the beautiful forest, and here I am in an urban prison. The walls coated in chipped paint seem to close in around me. My body cries out for some nature therapy.

“Bye, Rory, I love you!” Hazel smooches the phone and hangs up.

The noises of angry roommates press in on me, and I’d give anything to transport myself through the phone to my sister. She’s the smart one.

A text vibrates and her address pops up in a bubble on my splintered screen. Curiosity prickles under my skin, and I hold down on the text until it copies. Two seconds later, google map pulls up satellite images for her home. Zooming in on the forest, there are a few trailers, a couple of larger buildings, and a smattering of cabins. The map won’t load much detail, but I count at least nine cabins. One of them must be Hazel’s.

Picturing my sister among those trees, my sense of longing intensifies until I have to press a hand to my chest. Geez, what’s wrong with me? I’ve loved living in Los Angeles since I was eighteen and starting art school. But something has been whispering in the back of my head for a while. I’m not thriving. Exhaustion drags me down and my art is dry and stiff. I need a vacation.

Instead of sending art, maybe I should visit her. It’ll have to be soon or I’ll miss the baby being born. I can hold my niece or nephew, catch up with my sister, get a break from these crazy roommates, and spend time painting in nature. My new collection will be a hit, full of life and that special je ne sais quoi lacking in my recent work. Plus a few hugs from my sister would go a long way toward recharging my soul.

Decision made, I text the manager at the hotel asking for time off. They’ve been over-staffed and everyone is fighting for hours, so it’s not a problem. Next, I map out the route and find a cheap motel at the halfway point. No reason I can’t leave tomorrow!

Feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time, I change my music to nature sounds and curl up in my bed. My dreams are full of pine trees and dramatic possums dressed like firemen and construction workers.