I chuckled. His life was so fascinating to me. The way he was so close with his parents, how they understood each other and cared for each other was foreign to me. But mostly I liked that they were sober and could solve their issues without yelling at him.

We went to the main stairs, and Weston flipped on the light. I followed him up the spiral, wooden staircase. There was a polished wooden banister with intricate iron instead of spindles. I loved his house. It was so clean, and decorated with such care that it could have been featured in a home design magazine. Hanging from the clay-colored wall were canvases of Weston and his older sister Whitney, posing together and individually, from grade school to senior year.

When we reached the top of the stairs, Weston walked down another hallway, and then opened the last door on the left, sweeping his arm across his body, signaling for me to come in. The room was still dark, but when I stepped inside, Weston flipped on the light, revealing his bed, a dresser, and a desk. Like the rest of the house, everything had its place. It was all dusted and smelled fresh. The midnight blue comforter was tucked under the pillows, and smoothed out just right. The desk was organized and dusted, and his brand new computer was off.

Above the desk was the charcoal he’d drawn of me. Its frame was black and looked like rope. It didn’t really go with the brown-stained wooden frame of his bed, or anything else in his room.

“What do you think?”

I realized then that my mouth was open and I snapped it shut.

His eyebrows pulled together. “I went to Hobby Lobby in Ponca to get it framed. It wasn’t the frame I wanted, but they would have had to order the other one, and I wanted to show it to you today. I couldn’t wait.”

“Are you really going to fail Art?”

He shrugged. “Who cares? What do you think?”

“The Art Institute of Dallas might take issue with you failing Art.”

His shoulders fell. “I’m not going to Dallas, Erin.”

“Why not?”

“I tried to tell my parents, but I can’t look them in the eye and say it to them.”

“Do you want to go?”

He held out his hands then let them fall back to his thighs with a slap. “Yeah.”

“Then you’re going. We’re going to figure out a way to get you there, even if I have to hold your hand when you tell them. They love you, Weston, and above all, they want you to be happy, right?”

He nodded slowly. “But . . .”

“No buts. We’re going to get you there.”

He watched me for a moment. “Do you like the frame?”

“I love the frame. I love the picture. I still don’t understand why you decided to make me your final project.” My last words hung in the air. “Is that what I am? A project?”