These Old Pages

A Beetle pulled into the driveway of a box-like house. The car was old, almost 17 years old by this point, and tan. It had started out cream but years of use and lack of desire to clean had turned it tan. The house it parked in front of was in no better condition. The blue paint was faded and had begun to chip in places. The white garage door was now gray, as was the once white roof. The yard was unkempt, the flowers and grass both overgrown, though that was probably the most beautiful part of the house. It was structurally well-kept, for safety reasons, but was otherwise neglected.

The driver stepped out of the car. Her dark hair was set in a messy bun. She wore a white collared blouse and a tan skirt that flowed passed her knees. She stood in black high heels, though she struggled to walk in them. A black and purple messenger bag hung loosely off one shoulder. She clutched an enormous pile of papers close to her chest, and a red pen rested on her ear. She slouched, and her face was tired and drained. She was so tired and drained. She was young, no older than thirty-five, and yet she could barely lift her feet.

She shuffled into the house and was met by a wave of noise.

“Mom’s home! Mom’s home!” a young boy cried.

“Mommy!” an even younger girl screeched.

She braced herself as the children ran to her. They flung their arms about her, and she smiled down at them. They were soon followed by two barking dogs; one was a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy, bounding toward them with endless joy; the other was an aging Great Dane, much slower than the puppy and perhaps going deaf but happy all the same. She smiled even wider.

Her son pulled away, his own smile bright. He was seven years old and of a perfectly average size for his age. He had short dark hair, dark eyes, and a long face. His eyes were wide and his nose was pug-like; he looked quite like his mother, actually, except with darker skin. She could never get over how beautiful he was.

“Mom, I finished the book! I finished it!” he said, almost bouncing in place.

Her eyes widened. “That’s great! The whole book?”

The boy nodded rapidly. “Yes, Mom. The whole thing!”

“Mommy! Mommy!” The girl, who had been patiently hugging her until then, tugged on her mother’s skirt. “I made you a gift.”

She smiled down at her daughter. “Really? Where is it?”

“Over here!” The girl grabbed her mother’s hand and pulled her toward the dining room. “Come on!”

She let out a small, weak laugh. She stumbled behind her daughter, her son and their dogs following close behind them.

Her daughter surely was energetic, hyper, even. She was four years old, healthy—neither plump nor slender with some baby fat in her face—and tall for her age. Her hair was dark, just like her mother’s and her brother’s, and reached her butt. Her eyes, however, were her most striking feature: almond-shaped and deep sapphire blue. How odd it was that someone of light olive complexion would have such deep, dark blue eyes.

They stopped at the dining table. Her daughter picked up a paper from one of the chairs and held it up.

It was a crayon drawing. It was orange on the bottom, red in the middle, and a little purple on top. In the middle was a black-marker circle, encompassing all three colors. The mother had to smile at her daughter’s simple art.

“It’s beautiful, Catherine. Really beautiful.” She took the picture and placed it on top of her pile of papers.

“You really like it?” Catherine asked, her face bright.

“Of course. It’s wonderful.”

Catherine clapped happily. “Daddy said you would! He said you love sunsets!”

The mother’s smile wavered. “Of course he did.” She quickly added, “He’s right. I love sunsets.” She turned to her son. “Did your dad help you finish the book too, Gabriel?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, he said I could do it on my own. He said I could do anything if I just tried and I did! I did it all on my own!”

Her heart stung. “That’s great, sweetheart. Really great.”

The dogs saw their chance and nuzzled their way under her arms. They nearly whimpered, trying to get her attention.

She smiled and set her papers on the table. She knelt down to the Great Dane’s eye level and petted them both.

“Can we start Half-blood Prince now?” Gabriel asked.

She looked up at her son, still petting the dogs, and her smile wavered. “Not yet, sweetheart. I’m sure the dogs need to be walked—”

“No, they don’t,” a man’s deep voice said. “They just got in at five. They’re fine.”

She looked back at the man. He was tall, lean but muscular, and dark-skinned, a couple shades darker than the children. His dark hair was uncombed and he wore only a white V-neck and gray sweat bottoms. His deep blue eyes—identical to Catherine’s—pierced the woman’s form. His face was nearly stern, as if he was mad at her for something; her smile faded.

“Yes, of course,” she turned to Gabriel, “but it’s almost six. I need to start dinner—”

“I ordered pizza.” The man leaned against the wall of the dining room. “I wasn’t sure how long the staff meeting would take you. It should be here in about twenty minutes.”

Her voice strained. “Of course.”

He sighed. “We have plenty of money for it. I got paid today.”

Her voice strengthened. “Good.” She looked at Gabriel. His expression of joy and anticipation nearly broke her heart. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I have papers to grade by Monday.”

The man’s body tensed. “It could wait until Sunday.”

“There’s a lot of papers,” she snapped.

The man flung his hands up in resignation. “Of course. There’s always papers to grade. Always papers to grade, tests to mark, assignments to make, greeting cards to design, posters to draw, logos to create—”

“I can start it on my own,” Gabriel whispered.

He had shrunk in his spot, though his footing stayed firm. Catherine had retreated to a corner, the dogs standing guard in front of her.

The woman glared at her husband. He let out a long sigh and forced his body to relax. The woman stood and walked to Gabriel. She smiled the most kindly smile and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m just busy tonight.” She brushed back her son’s hair. “How about this: tomorrow, you and I will not only start Half-blood Prince, but all four of us will go see a movie and get some Arby’s for dinner. Would you like that?”

Gabriel nodded, though he would not relax. “Can I pick the movie?”

“Of course.”

“And read for as long as I want?”

“Of course.”

Gabriel smiled. “I’d like that.”

She bent down and kissed his forehead. “Good. Now, why don’t you and Catherine take Boomer and Ryley out back to play? We’ll call you in when the pizza’s here.”

Gabriel nodded. “All right, Mom.” He turned toward the corner and motioned for Catherine to follow him. “Let’s go, Cat.” He went to the sliding glass door and whistled. “Boomer, Ryley! Here boys!”

The boy walked out the door, soon followed by Boomer, Ryley, and Catherine. Catherine closed the door behind her. After they left, the woman picked up her papers and went to the hall. Her body was stiff as she passed the man, and she swerved to avoid their shoulders touching.

“Are you sure we can afford Arby’s and a movie?” the man said, his voice mocking.

The woman halted and took a deep breath. “I’ll be in our office, working. Come get me when the pizza’s here.”

“You were supposed to help me clean out the office today.”

“And your point is?”

“That it’s a mess in there.”

Her hand went to her temple and she rubbed her head. “How much of a mess?”

“Like a tornado’s been through there.”

Her voice was like venom. “Well that’s just perfect.”

“Hey, you’re the one that said that we should clean up that disaster. You’re the one that said it would do us a load of good to get rid of the clutter. I wanted things to stay just the way they were.”

She cringed. “Fine. We’ll go in there and work on it now.”

“I’ve done my fair share today. I’ll stay out here, watch the kids, and wait for the pizza. You can go in there and work on it yourself.” His voice dropped to a grumble. “It was your idea to clean, not mine.”

She felt tears stream down her face, but she wouldn’t let him know that he hurt her. “Come get me when it’s here.” She rushed down the hall without another word. She passed the bathroom and turned left into the largest of the four bedrooms.

It was never really for sleeping. The closest thing to a bed was a black pull-out couch. Everything else resembled more of a workplace than a home space: two desks, each with their own wheeled swivel chairs, stood in opposite corners; one desk was covered with colored pencils, stencils, and all kinds of paper from graph to computer to poster, most marred by commercial designs; the other had a laptop, an adding machine, notebooks, pens, pencils, and books by all the English greats from Milton to Woolf; calendars marked with dates and deadlines hung from the walls, one on the east wall and one on the west wall; a printer rested on a small book case, which seemed there more for miscellaneous storage than for actual books. On this very day, however, the room was far too messy for work or living. Boxes full of papers, old toys, photos, books, and forgotten projects were scattered about the room; some of the boxes were covered by paint-splattered tarps, others were left to gather dust. Three nets of old stuffed animals had been thrown into a pile over by the printer, and empty cardboard boxes had been shoved against every wall.

She didn’t care about the mess. She didn’t care about her work. She flung her messenger bag into the nearest box and dropped her papers on the floor before her. She didn’t care if she could find them; that was a problem for later that night. She took one look around the room, not even looking at what was there, and burst into tears. She ripped off her high heels and threw them against the wall. He would hear. She knew he would hear; let him. No matter how she looked out there, she knew that he knew that he hurt her. She collapsed onto the floor and lay on the papers, crying.

This was a familiar tune.

She reminded herself of this, that this wasn’t different from any other night. She didn’t let it stop her before; why should it stop her now? She had work to do, she reminded herself. Slowly, reluctantly, she rose to a seated position. Her eyes still watered, but she didn’t let herself cry. There was no time for that. There was a room to clean, papers to grade…

Always papers to grade, tests to mark, assignments to make, greeting cards to design, posters to draw, logos to create…

He had no reason to be mad, she reminded herself. This was how the real world worked. They needed to work in order to live, she reminded herself. But his words still left their mark, a burn that will never heal.

She reached for the box near her messenger bag. Inside were photo albums, many more than she thought they had. Throwing them out just wouldn’t do. They were filled with family memories; those that were empty were still perfectly usable. What should she do with them? Perhaps she could just store them in that box or make room on one of their many bookshelves… Either way, it would probably be best to look through them first. There might be something in there that her parents would want more than she and her husband.

The first album was of her in Girl Scouts. She quickly flipped through the pages and smiled a little. There were a lot of pictures of her and her childhood best friend in there. She had her email; maybe she’d contact her after all her work was done. Still, her mother would probably want this album more than her. The second album was empty. She would keep that. The third album was of her first family trip to Disneyland. Not the first one she took with her parents, but the first one with her own kids, her own family. Though she knew what was inside, she had to take a look. She smiled.

In the first picture, they stood in Fantasyland with Sleeping Beauty’s Castle in the background. It was almost sunset. Gabriel was four, wore Mickey Mouse Ears, and clung to his father’s legs. Catherine was no more than one, wore Princess Mouse Ears, and was held by her mother. Their mother also held a flashing mouse balloon. Their father had his arm wrapped about his wife’s waist. They all smiled. The next few pictures were at Goofy’s Kitchen. Gabriel hugged Goofy. Catherine and her mother posed with Aladdin. Gabriel and his father stood on either side of Jasmin. Gabriel, Catherine, and their mother sat with the Fairy Godmother. They all laughed with the Mad Hatter.

The last picture she looked at was in New Orleans Square, during the fireworks. She looked at it longer than the others. She and her husband were twined in a kiss; Catherine was squished between them. They were oblivious to the red and blue fireworks that went off behind them. She smiled through her tears. She remembered that moment very well. They had ended the day with dinner at the French Market Restaurant and had gone straight to the fireworks. Catherine didn’t like the fireworks very much; she started bawling the moment they started. To calm the little girl, she started telling Catherine a story. She made up the story on the spot, about a little girl who met her very own fairy godmother during her first trip to Disneyland. It calmed Catherine quickly. Her husband watched them the entire time she told her story. Then, just as the fireworks finale began, he pulled her close to him and kissed his wife full on the lips.

She remembered the passion and love behind the kiss. She remembered how happy they all were on that trip. But that was before reality had to set, she reminded herself. It was before priorities had to change, before she let people change her priorities for her…no, no; that was her husband talking. Things had to change. It had all been for the best. Still, she couldn’t stop her heart from aching for that night and that kiss, which both seemed so long ago.

“Pizza’s here.”

She jumped. She wiped away her tears as well as she could before she turned to face her husband. “Thank you. I’ll be out in a minute.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. He looked about to reach out for her but just leaned against the archway. “What you got there?”

“The photo album from our Disneyland trip.”

He smiled. It wasn’t just a closed-lip smirk; his bright white teeth could be seen. It made her smile too. “I remember that. It was fun. We should go again, you know, now that the kids are older.”

“Yeah, we really should.” She paused. Her smile slowly faded. “When we have the money, that is.”

His smile disappeared. “Yeah, when we have the money.”

Silence fell between them.

She put down the photo album and rose to her feet. “Well, we better get out there before the dogs try to eat our dinner.” Her voice was quiet.

“Or the kids.”

***

They didn’t talk to each other during dinner. He talked to their children, she talked to their children; he talked to their dogs, she talked to their dogs; their children talked to everyone, but husband and wife did not speak to each other. If he needed something near her, he asked Catherine for it. If she needed something near him, she asked Gabriel for it. Only once, when reaching for her second slice of pizza, did she talk to him.

“I don’t want to move things.” She plopped the pizza on her plate.

He stopped mid-bite and looked at her. He arched his eyebrow for a moment then shrugged and swallowed his food. “Ok.”

They didn’t talk to each other for the rest of the dinner, but every now and then he would glance up at her. His look was curious and a bit confused. He probably thought she had lost her mind for switching sides so quickly. She was almost certain that’s what he thought, and maybe she had lost her mind. She didn’t care. She was allowed to change her mind.

***

After dinner, she worked to put the office back the way it was. She squeezed herself within the mess and stood in the middle of the room. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine how everything had been the night before. The empty cardboard boxes had come from the garage…the nets of stuffed animals had hung from the walls (her husband would have to take care of that)…the boxes of abandoned projects and books had been pushed against the wall…the boxes of old toys and photo albums had been in the closet…

She picked up the box of photo albums and waded through the mess to the closet. She stood on the tips of her toes in front of the closet and tried to heave the box onto the shelf high up in the closet. Her grunts of effort soon turned into exclamations of surprise and frustration when she lost her grip on the box. She jumped back in time to protect her head; instead the box and its contents fell onto her feet. She cried out and cursed in pain then found herself falling backwards into a box of old art supplies. Her cries continued for a few more minutes before she took a deep breath and composed herself.

“Everything all right in there?” her husband called a few moments into the silence.

“Oh yeah, everything is just peachy!” she yelled back.

She rose to her feet. She bent over to scoop up the box’s contents, mentally cursing about how just a few years ago he would have come running to check on her…then she saw a small pad of paper with the all-too-familiar mouse ears in the bottom left corner. It was covered with her handwriting. Curious, she picked it up. At the very top were the words “ODD EYES”. The next line began “Eye color can be used as an indicator of magic and its use…” She smiled slightly. She had written these notes in the hotel while Catherine napped and her husband chased Gabriel around their room. His eyes had shined so brilliantly, and she had been filled with such inspiration…she sighed and tossed the pad onto the closest desk. She’d put it with her other notes once she found the right box. Until then, she just had to continue cleaning. No use getting off track and losing herself in these memories.

***

She worked four hours on the mess. She put the boxes of photo albums and toys in the closet, took the empty boxes back out to the garage, found room for the boxes of books by the bookcase, and sorted the papers into more proper places. She stopped only once at 8:30 to help her husband put the kids to bed. All that was left to do was hang up the stuffed animals and put their old projects away. She didn’t want to ask for his help just yet; the nets could stay where they were, for now. That left just the boxes of their projects.

She knew exactly where those went. How could she forget? She had seen his longing stares at the paint-splattered tarps while they worked. He couldn’t hide it. She had also seen him stealing glimpses into her binders and notes. He had tried to make it late at night so perhaps she wouldn’t see, but she had. She had her nights when she couldn’t sleep, and it was hard not to look when he kept the door open.

Their projects belonged at the wall by his desk. She decided to move his project box first, before she lost the energy for it. The box was heavy and it would be hard to slide it across the floor without catching it on the tarp, so she knew that she might as well get it done. She got behind the box, flipped the edges of the tarp onto the box, and began to push. She huffed and puffed at the effort; even in a burst of energy, she could only slide it three-fourths of the way to its destination before she needed a break. She couldn’t even remember what he had been working on that would need a box this big or a tarp. It had been so long since she had actually seen him work on one of these projects that she couldn’t remember what he had last started. Curiosity overwhelmed her, and she flung back the tarp.

Inside the box were art supplies. There were paintbrushes, the tips stiff, brittle, and stained; there were crayons (several broken in half) and colored pencils with the tips snapped off; there were sketch pads coated in a thin layer of dust and sketch pens whose ink had probably dried months ago. Most prominent were the canvases vertically standing on top of the rest of the supplies. Some were blank, never been touched; others were decorated with paintings and sketches from a majestic dragon water-painted red to a sunset abstractly painted from orange, red and purple. They were in various stages of production, but it was the least complete drawing at the front of the row that caught her attention.

It was a curvaceous woman with wavy, waist-length hair. She wore a V-neck toga dress with long, flowing sleeves attached at the shoulders by round clasps; the dress covered her entire body to the tops of her feet, but her fit form showed nevertheless. Her hair was colored in dark with a number two pencil and topped with a ring-like crown. The details were faintly sketched with the same pencil but the symmetry and perfection of the pug nose and the wide eyes were still obvious. The woman’s weight was on her left foot and her right hip was turned toward the viewer; she faced over her shoulder, as if she was watching and waiting until she could once more flirt with the audience. She was a goddess. At the bottom left corner of the canvas were the words La Venus di California.

She smiled. She remembered when her husband had started that piece. It was after they had returned from Disneyland. He had had such a fever, an itch to draw something. He wouldn’t let her know what it was, no matter how much she had begged him. He had just locked himself in that very room for an entire week, only coming out for food and bathroom and to her help with the children when she was desperate enough. He had finally decided to let her in on the surprise at the end of that week. She remembered feeling a tinge of pain when she had finally seen the beginnings of this work of art; she had thought for certain that he had been inspired by another woman, that he had kept it a secret from her because he had not wanted her to know that his heart belonged to someone else. And then he had told her that she was the woman in the picture, that he had decided to draw her in the Greek goddess costume she had worn the previous Halloween. She remembered that he then held her and told her that she was a muse, a goddess of art and inspiration, and that she should be portrayed as such. It had been rather cheesy, but she had loved hearing it just the same. She would still love to hear it.

Then came the day that he put this project up for good. She had had a long day at work and had gotten into an argument with the principal over whether assigning a short story free of any limits except a minimum of ten pages was an acceptable English assignment for teenagers. Then she had come in to find him putting all of his art supplies and canvases, including this drawing, into this box. What are you doing? Putting this stuff away. It’s just making a mess. But don’t you need it out so that you can work on your drawings? I don’t have time anymore. Why? I need to get a real job. But being an artist is a real job. Not a practical one, and we need money. You don’t need to do this. We’ll be fine. Why shouldn’t I do this? I’m doing exactly what you said. I’m facing reality. Please don’t do this. Why not? You did it. A week later, he was designing logos and graphics for any company that was willing to pay him.

She sniffled and replaced the tarp. That seemed so long ago, but it wasn’t really that long ago. He had changed so quickly. It was hard to believe that anything could change a man so quickly but there was nothing she could do about it. They had both made their decisions, and all for their family. It had to be done, she reminded herself. It had to be done.

She stared at the tarp for a few minutes longer then finished pushing the box into place. There was no use dwelling on the past when she couldn’t change it. She knew that, but she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to the painting or to Disneyland. She just tried to push it all aside and went to move her project box. She picked up her pad of notes from Disneyland along the way. Her project box was significantly lighter than her husband’s, so it was just a matter of picking up and moving it across the room. Then she could go to bed early and rest up for their big family outing the next day. She would need all the energy she could get in order to handle Gabriel, Catherine, and her husband in public.

She had not looked in this box for a while, not since Gabriel had written his first story when he was five. She could see it at the top of the box, crudely handwritten on computer paper and titled “Doggy.” It was about a puppy who loved to play. It was mostly description with no real plot to speak of and the characters were very simplistic, something you would expect from a five-year-old; yet his use of language was beyond his years and very promising. He’s like you used to be. Her heart stung at just the memory of those words.

She put the Disneyland notes in the box and then lifted the box. As the contents shifted, something crimson and gold caught her eye. She shook her head. It was late; she should just ignore it and move on. If she didn’t get to bed soon, she wouldn’t have the energy to go anywhere or read anything but her students’ papers the next day. She couldn’t disappoint Gabriel again. She tried to just move the box but the colors were very tempting. It was as if a siren lived in that box, and who was she to ignore a call that was mythical and cliché?

She plopped down in the middle of the room and grabbed out the colors. It was a leather journal that her husband had given to her the first time they had spent her birthday together. She smiled. Another trip to Disneyland, this time with her now-husband and her parents, and a birthday dinner at the Blue Bayou. She remembered using this journal so many times, but she could not quite remember for what. She opened up the book and found half a novel written in there. There was a title and the writing was even divided into chapters. She read the first few lines and could recall the story clearly. It was the first book of a fantasy series she had started planning in college. She had spent her early years, while she was in college and dating her husband, just planning the series. She had written outlines for every book, biographies for every major and minor character, mapped out the territories and terrain of the world, and had practically written entire textbooks on the creatures, magic, and history of the world. She had even jotted down a few notes for spin-off books somewhere. She had started writing the first novel soon after she and her husband got married but had only been able to write about a fourth of it before having a child started to eat up too much of her time. Even then, she had found time whenever she could to write it and had finished over half the book. She knew why she had stopped after that, and she cringed at the reason.

Why do you even care about what they say? Because maybe they have a point. Writing isn’t a stable career. You never let that stop you before. I didn’t have two kids to feed before. We can provide for them without you giving up your writing. But they’re right. It’s just too much, writing and having a real job. They don’t know what you can do. But I do. So do your parents and they have encouraged you every step of the way. They shouldn’t have to help me support my own family. I help you support our family! And besides, you have a job with a steady income. So long as you have time, why shouldn’t you write too? It’s just a waste of time. That’s what THEY say, not you, not your parents, and certainly not me. I thought you cared more about my opinion and your parents’ opinion than those controlling, self-centered, judgmental grandparents of yours. I do— Then you listen to us, not them. If we all believe that you can make it, why can’t you? I’m just not that good. But you are! You’re extremely talented and creative. It’ll be a sin if you deprive the world of your talent, your imagination. It’s just not practical. We have to focus on making enough money to keep our family afloat. That’s the end of it.

The argument had gone all night. They had finally stopped yelling early the next morning. It had ruined any happiness that had still lingered from the Disneyland trip a few months before.

She kept reading. She had forgotten how much she had enjoyed her own worlds. She could remember every detail she had created, and she was starting to fantasize about what her characters would be doing next. No, she couldn’t do that. She had papers to grade for money. She had to read with Gabriel and go out with her family. She couldn’t put the journal down. Magic flew from the pages. She smiled more broadly than she had in years. Her imagination went wild. Her hand twitched, longing for a pen. She hadn’t felt like this since that fight. It felt…wonderful, natural. It was late, she reminded herself. She didn’t care. She couldn’t leave this world now. Her characters needed her. Her world needed its heroes to continue their journey. Perhaps this was why her husband so often snuck into this room and raided her project box…

She glanced at her husband’s project box. Had he felt this way with his art? Had he felt this way since he had exchanged a canvas and paint brush for computer paper and a ruler? She glanced back down at her journal. She chewed her bottom lip and her eyes glazed over in thought. Then her lips lifted in a slight smile and closed the journal. She stood and walked over to her husband’s project box.

***

It was 2:30 a.m. before her husband truly started to worry. He had at least expected her to ask for help with the stuffed animals, and it had grown awfully quiet in that room. He had just been about to go to bed; he had slipped into a worn pair of cotton gym shorts and a faded San Jose Sharks t-shirt; he had even finished his bathroom routine and had pulled back the covers on the bed when he thought to check on her. She never went to bed after him, not anymore.

He picked up his cell phone, just in case, and went to the home office. He opened the door and surprise crossed his usually solemn features.

Most of the room had been put back the way it was that morning, with a few exceptions. The nets of stuffed animals were still by the printer instead of hanging on the walls. His wife sat in the middle of the room, a couple boxes beside her and papers and notebooks spread out around her. She was hunched over something and her hand moved rapidly. To her right were some colored pencils, one of the wheeled chairs, and an easel with La Venus di California propped on it. He couldn’t move.

“It’s because of you,” she said. She did not look up.

“What?”

“On the way back from Disneyland you asked me why my stories focus so much on eyes, why my characters always seem to have such oddly colored eyes.” She stopped writing. She put down her pen and notebook. She walked to him and looked him right in the eyes. She smiled a small, closed-lipped smile. “It’s because of you. It’s always been because of you.”

His eyes watered. He stroked her cheek then looked at his feet. “I’m so—”

She grabbed his face and kissed him full on the lips. She thought she heard Disneyland fireworks.

After a few minutes, she pulled away. “Don’t be. You were right. I’m sorry.”

He smiled and kissed her gently again. “I’m just glad to have the woman I love back.”

She slipped her hand in his. “Come on. It’s Saturday now. I’m sure the kids will want to sleep in too.” She led him to the easel and sat him in the chair. She sat on the floor, picked up her notebook and pen, and began to write.

He watched her. “I love you, Sophie.” He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. He lightly kissed it then let their hands fall.

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “I love you too, Luca.”

Sophie dropped his hand and returned to her writing. Luca picked up a pencil and started on his portrait.

Perhaps, someday, she will publish a manuscript. Perhaps, one day, they will sell their old house and move to Anaheim, to a house close enough to Disneyland but big enough for their children and their dogs. Perhaps, someday, they will quit their jobs and focus only on their art. But for now, she will just write and he will just draw, and they will encourage their children to chase their dreams as well, no matter where it leads them. And for now, they are content to follow their hearts, together.