He watches TV beside me on the couch and grumbles about how he can never show his face at Redemption again. I pull out my sketch pad and start to draw. “You doing up a stencil for someone’s tat?” He rests his feet on my glass coffee table, then lowers them when I raise an admonishing eyebrow. “No. I just…wanted to draw.” He nods at my dining room table, still set up with my easel and the half-finished painting from Ray’s visit. “Like you just wanted to paint?” My cheeks burn and I shrug. “Yeah. Ray was here the other night and he opened my closet and everything fell out. He asked me to paint something for him.” My throat tightens with emotion. “It had been so long…and… Oh God, Tag, it felt so good.” His face softens. “I’m happy for you, Sis. I missed your art. I mean, I see your tats on the guys at the gym, but it isn’t the same.”
