Drew was right; I’d been pushing him away for my parents’ sake, not mine. Fear of their disapproval, fear of how to untangle the fact that they already knew him as Andrew.

I wanted to stop making decisions out of fear.

“One thing I gotta know,” I said, and he tensed slightly. “Were the imaginary sheep real?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Yes. Well, no. They were imaginary. But yeah, I do the pajama thing when I can’t sleep.”

We snort-laughed together. I could feel molecules shifting, and when we shared a smile, it now felt as if there were a red thread attached to the both of us, lifting the corners of our lips in tandem, for the same reasons.

“Okay,” I said with confidence. “Thanks for being patient. If you’re still willing, can you tell me about your parents? About following in your grandfather’s footsteps?”

Drew CHAPTER 37 HOLY HELL

Where to start?

I dove into the murky waters of my memories. No oxygen tank, no floaties.

“My family—and when I say ‘family,’ I mean my parents, my wàipó, who lived with us, and my younger brother, Jordan, who’s a freshman at Berkeley—always had practical values. You know, work hard in school so you can get a good, reliable job doing something really boring in a cubicle somewhere, dreaming of the day you’ll earn enough to do what you actually love. Which was a life I had been preparing for—and sometimes even now I think maybe that was the way to go…” I exhaled. “But then I took some art electives in high school to pad my college apps, and, unsurprising spoiler, I loved it. For years I kept thinking there was something there for me, especially with painting, but I was too scared to say anything. Junior year, when I finally worked up the nerve to suggest to my parents that maybe I would want to apply to colleges with art programs, they flipped their shit.”

I mimicked each family member’s voice.

My father’s, gruff and authoritative: “ ‘Art is for people who have no other choice in life, no other skills.’ ”

My mother’s, hoarse and stern: “ ‘I thought I’d raised a fighter, not someone who has so given up on life they decide to paint.’ ”

My high-pitched, nasal wàipó: “ ‘I always knew you were just like my worthless husband. He died penniless and alone—just like you will!’ ”

“Jesus,” said Chloe.

“I didn’t even know that was why my wàigōng hadn’t been in our lives growing up.” I regretted not having known him, especially since my creative genes apparently came from him.

“What about Jordan?” she asked.

“He was so young at the time—still in junior high—and I didn’t want him to get caught in the middle.”

“But he got caught anyway.”