Aria strapped her easel to her back and carried her paint bag over her shoulder. I carried her medium-sized canvas covered in a sheet up for her. Whenever I write, I write the things I’ve seen. I study the things and people around me in order to get a realistic advantage on what I’m trying to tell others. As Aria and I walk up this unnamed mountain together, I focus on the way the light hits her face. How her hips raise and fall when she steps over stones. How her hair has slightly fallen from her ponytail and is drifting in the breeze. The tune she hums as she looks at the canopy of trees up above our heads. ‘Beautiful day,’ she says, looking back at me, her white teeth glistening. ‘Very,’ I said, smiling back at her. She picked up speed. The top of the mountain was imminent, and it looked as though she couldn’t wait to get to the top. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘The lighting is going to be wonderful!’ She continued to hurry and when she got to the top, her breath caught. ‘Eric. Look at. ”“Boyfriend?”“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I understand that you and Bethany are just friends. Usually, the partners that girls bring in already have an established relationship. It’s not often I see a fifteen-year-old in your situation.”“That’s OK. I’m just super confused and want to know how to help Bethany.”“Will you answer some questions for me?”“Sure. Anything.”“I’m going to ask Bethany to leave for a bit. I want to make sure I get honest answers, not ones that are designed not to hurt her, OK? Trust me; you could say something totally innocent that could affect her in ways you can’t imagine.”“OK.”“OK, Bethany?”“Yes,” she said and went to the waiting room.“Steve, why are you here today?”“Bethany asked me to come. And I want to learn how to help her. A friend of mine warned me about how, uhm, volatile, I guess, this situation could be.”“Your friend is right. Let me guess, an adult woman?”“Yes.”“And she had some kind of trauma in her life?”“Yes. Her husband was killed in.
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