Page 80 of The CEO and the Mountain Man

River rolled his shoulders and then sat on the bed next to me, taking my hand.

“Art isn’t just about painting, Dad. It’s about emotions. It’s about politics. It’s about the world around us. It’s about a world we can imagine for ourselves.”

I nodded along, listening to the passion in his voice, wanting with everything I had to tell him to pursue his dreams at full throttle because of it. Who gave a shit about money? I could take care of the money.

Why didn’t he want to follow his dreams?

“Would it surprise you to learn that I actually have been creating art this entire time?”

I drew my chin back. “You’ve been painting? I thought you said?—”

Shaking his head, he said, “Remember how I didn’t know if I could go back to full color with my style? That I could maybe introduce a little here and there, but it was too much right now?”

“Of course. You’re allowed to integrate,” I answered automatically, repeating my earlier words.

“That’s what happened with my art, too.” He dashed away a tear. “I just didn’t want to tell you because I knew it would make you sad.”

My chest contracted, and I thought back to the beautiful painting hanging in my bathroom at home. The idea that hewouldn’t be able to paint like that again … it killed me. It absolutely killed me.

Which meant my son knew me even better than I’d predicted.

I looked to Beau, unable to explain how he’d become an anchor point for me in such a short amount of time. Something about the way he was looking between me and River, like he understood both of us. And he had asked me to listen to my son.

So, I listened to my son.

“In what way, River?”

“I couldn’t paint. But I had to dosomethingwith my hands.” He sniffled loudly, his tears flowing a little more freely. “The only medium that really made any sense after the accident was charcoal.”

Charcoal?

I hadn’t seen him use charcoal at all in the months since the accident.

“No colored pencils or anything?”

“I couldn’t do it with color, Dad. I don’t know why.” He pressed his lips together, his chin trembling. “It’s just … color hurts. It really fucking hurts.”

I squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry. My sweet boy, I am so, so sorry. I hate that you’ve lost color.”

“But I’m proud of what I’ve been able to do with shadow,” he said, tears sparkling in his dark eyes. “Can I show you?”

“Of course you can show me.”

“Some of the earlier stuff is real disturbing, though. You don’t have to look at that.”

“Show me everything.”

River pulled his phone from his back pocket, then worried at his lip.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna recover a little bit? We don’t have to be in the hospital for this.”

“Show me,” I insisted, needing to see what he couldn’t share with me before.

He sniffed again, then navigated to some kind of cloud account. Where he’d stored digital photographs of his art.

He scrolled for a few moments, then held the screen to his chest. “If it’s too much, it won’t hurt my feelings if you skip ahead to the lighter stuff.”

“If you can take it, I can take it.”