December came again.
The courtyard was buried under snow. The tarp was invisible. The broken birdbath was a white mound. Maya stood at the window of the studio, watching the flakes drift down. The radiator hissed. The room was warm enough.
She had not drawn her father again. The drawing sat in the drawer, unfinished. She opened the drawer sometimes, looked at it, then closed it. She wasn't ready.
Leo noticed. He didn't ask.
The solo show had ended. The reviews were good. Dr. Vasquez had called with an offer – a gallery in Manhattan wanted to represent her. "They're very interested," the curator said. "They've seen your work. They think you have a future."
Maya had thanked her and said she would think about it.
She had been thinking about it for three weeks.
---
"You should say yes," Leo said one evening.
They were sitting on the floor of the living room. The painting was on the wall. The string lights were dark.
"I don't know," Maya said.
"What don't you know?"
"If I want to be represented. If I want to be part of that world. Galleries. Openings. Rich people buying my drawings."
Leo set down his book. "What do you want?"
"I want to draw. I want to garden. I want to live in this apartment with you."
"That's not a career."
"I don't want a career. I want a life."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You can have both."
"Can I?"
"You can try."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're not helpful."
"I'm not trying to be."
---
The next morning, Maya called Dr. Vasquez.
"I'll meet with the gallery," Maya said.
"Excellent. I'll set up an appointment."
The meeting was scheduled for January 15th. Three weeks away. Maya marked the date on the calendar. She tried not to think about it.
She spent her days in the studio, drawing the winter. The snow on the fire escape. The icicles on the window. The grey sky through the glass.
She drew Leo reading. Leo sleeping. Leo drinking coffee.
She drew her mother at the bakery. Elena behind the counter, wiping it down, her hair in a net.
She drew the courtyard under snow. The tarp. The birdbath. The brick walls.
She filled sketchbooks. Page after page.
---
Christmas came.
Elena decorated her apartment. A small tree on the table. Lights on the window. A wreath on the door.
Maya and Leo spent Christmas Eve in Elena's apartment. They ate takeout Chinese food. The dumplings were cold. The rice was dry.
"This is terrible," Elena said.
"It's tradition," Maya said.
"Since when?"
"Since now."
Elena laughed. It was a real laugh. Loud. Unselfconscious.
Leo raised his glass. "To family."
"To family," Maya said.
"To family," Elena said.
They drank. The tea was weak. The cup was chipped.
---
After dinner, Maya and Leo went to the roof.
The roof of the Crown Street building. Not the old one. This one was smaller. No water tank. No painted eye. But the view was wide.
The city spread out below them. Lights. Sirens. The distant sound of traffic.
"I miss the old roof," Maya said.
"Me too."
"I miss the garden. The water tank. Mrs. Patterson."
Leo put his arm around her. "They're not gone."
"They're not here."
"They're in you."
She looked at him. His eyes were brown. The kind of brown that caught light.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
They stood in silence. The wind blew. The stars were bright.
---
New Year's Eve.
Marco came. Jasmine came. David came. Mr. Chen was in Florida – he sent a card. Vanessa came with champagne.
The apartment was crowded. The string lights were on. The painting stared down at them.
At midnight, they stood on the roof. The same roof. The same view.
"Happy new year," Leo said.
"Happy new year."
"Any resolutions?"
"To draw more. To worry less." She looked at him. "To say yes more."
"To what?"
"To everything."
He kissed her. The fireworks exploded. The city cheered.
---
January 15th.
The gallery was in Chelsea. White walls. Polished floors. A woman at the front desk with a headset.
Maya stood in the lobby. Her hands were cold. Her heart was fast.
Leo was next to her. "You'll be fine."
"What if they don't like my work?"
"They already like your work. That's why you're here."
"What if I don't like them?"
"Then you say no."
She took a deep breath. "Okay."
The gallery owner was a man named Mr. Kaplan. He was tall. Grey hair. A suit that cost more than Maya's rent.
"Ms. Reyes," he said. "I've admired your work for some time."
"Thank you."
"The way you capture memory. The way you capture loss. It's extraordinary."
Maya didn't know what to say. "I just draw what I see."
"That's what all artists say. But most of them don't see what you see."
He led her through the gallery. The walls were empty now – between shows. But he described his vision. A solo exhibition. A catalog. A reception.
"We'll sell your work to collectors," he said. "Museums. Private buyers."
Maya looked at the white walls. "I don't draw for collectors."
"You draw for yourself. The collectors come after."
She shook her head. "I draw for the people I've lost. Mrs. Patterson. Mr. Delgado. The building."
Mr. Kaplan nodded slowly. "That's what makes your work powerful. The honesty."
He offered her a contract. A standard agreement. Three years. Exclusive representation.
Maya looked at Leo. He shrugged.
"I need to think about it," Maya said.
"Of course. Take your time."
---
They walked to a coffee shop on the corner.
The coffee was expensive. The cups were small.
"What do you think?" Leo asked.
"I don't know."
"What don't you know?"
"If I want to be exclusive. If I want to be tied to one gallery."
"You don't have to sign."
"He's offering me a chance. A real chance."
"And?"
She set down her cup. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of losing myself. Of becoming someone I'm not."
Leo took her hand. "You're not going to lose yourself. You're too stubborn."
"You're not funny."
"I'm not trying to be."
---
Maya called Dr. Vasquez that night.
"I don't know what to do," Maya said.
The curator was quiet for a moment. "What does your gut tell you?"
"My gut tells me to run."
"Then run."
"But he's offering me a gallery. A catalog. A reception."
"Those things don't matter if you're not happy."
Maya sat on the floor. The desk lamp flickered.
"I want to stay independent," Maya said. "I want to show my work where I want, when I want."
"Then do that."
"Will I regret it?"
"Maybe. But you'll regret signing a contract you're not sure about more."
Maya hung up. She looked at the painting on the wall. Mrs. Patterson on the milk crate.
"What would you do?" Maya asked.
The painting didn't answer.
---
The next morning, Maya called Mr. Kaplan.
"Thank you for the offer," she said. "But I'm not ready to sign an exclusive agreement."
He was quiet for a moment. "I understand. The offer stands. If you change your mind."
"I'll keep that in mind."
She hung up. Leo was sitting on the floor, reading.
"You said no," he said.
"I said not yet."
"That's the same thing."
"No. It's not."
He set down his book. "I'm proud of you."
"For what?"
"For knowing what you want."
She sat next to him. "I don't know what I want. I just know what I don't want."
"That's a start."
---
January passed.
The snow melted. The courtyard was a muddy mess. Maya pulled back the tarp. The soil was wet. Dark. Ready.
She knelt in the mud. She turned the dirt with her hands. The cold seeped through her gloves.
She planted seeds. Tomatoes. Basil. Morning glories.
The same as before.
Leo came down. He knelt next to her.
"You're planting early," he said.
"The ground is ready."
"The frost isn't over."
"The seeds will wait."
He looked at her. "You're not talking about the garden."
She sat back on her heels. "I'm talking about my life."
"Same thing."
"No. Not the same."
He took her hand. "What do you want?"
"I want to keep drawing. I want to keep gardening. I want to keep living in this apartment with you."
"That's not a plan."
"It's a life."
He kissed her. The mud seeped through their knees. They didn't care.
---
February came.
The shoots appeared. Small green fingers pushing through the dirt.
Maya spent her mornings in the courtyard, watering, weeding, watching.
She drew the garden. Not the whole garden. Small pieces. A single tomato leaf. A morning glory bud. A drop of water on a basil stem.
She filled pages. Close-ups. Details.
Leo looked at her drawings one evening. "These are different."
"Different how?"
"Lighter. Like you're not trying so hard."
"Maybe I'm not."
He set down the sketchbook. "Keep going."
She kept going.
---
March came.
The morning glories climbed the brick walls. The tomatoes reached for the sky. The basil spread across the soil.
Maya sat in the courtyard, drawing. The same plants, different angles. The way the light changed. The way the shadows moved.
She thought about the gallery. The contract. The white walls.
She thought about Mrs. Patterson. The kitchen table. The folding chairs.
She thought about her father. The nursing home. The brown eyes.
She picked up her pencil. She drew.
---
One evening, Leo came home with news.
"The law firm is expanding," he said. "They're opening a second office. In Brooklyn."
"That's good."
"They want me to run it."
Maya set down her pencil. "Run it?"
"Manage it. Hire staff. Handle cases."
"That's a big job."
"It's a big opportunity."
She looked at him. His face was tired. But his eyes were bright.
"Do you want to do it?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then do it."
He sat next to her. "It means more hours. More stress. More responsibility."
"I know."
"Are you okay with that?"
She took his hand. "I'm okay with whatever makes you happy."
He kissed her. The desk lamp flickered. The city hummed.
---
April came.
The garden exploded. Tomato plants reached for the sky. Basil spread across the soil. Morning glories climbed the brick walls.
Maya spent her mornings in the courtyard, drawing, watering, watching.
Her mother came down one morning. Elena sat on the steps.
"The garden is beautiful," Elena said.
"Maya did it," Leo said. He was on his way to work. "I just helped."
Elena watched him go. "He's a good man."
"I know."
"You're lucky."
"I know."
Elena looked at the garden. The morning glories were blue and purple and white.
"I never had that," Elena said. "A good man. A garden. A home."
"You have it now."
"It's not the same."
"It's the same."
Elena shook her head. "It's different. But it's enough."
Maya sat next to her mother. The steps were cold. The sun was warm.
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you too."
---
That night, Maya dreamed of the old building.
She was on the roof. The water tank was there. The painted eye was there.
Mrs. Patterson was sitting on the milk crate.
"You came back," Mrs. Patterson said.
"I never left."
"The build
ing is gone."
"The building is in me."
Mrs. Patterson smiled. It was a real smile. Wide. Warm.
"Keep drawing," she said.
"I will."
"Keep gardening."
"I will."
"Keep loving."
Maya woke up. The room was dark. Leo was asleep next to her.
She got up. She went to the studio.
She turned on the desk lamp. She opened the drawer. She took out the drawing of her father.
She looked at it for a long time.
Then she picked up her pencil. She finished it.