And just like that, she took a step onto the bridge he’d made with his gentle question

Yellow ochre. Indian red.

The colors streak across the canvas. Aviva takes more paint on her brush, daubs it on. Finally, after a long day at the office, she’s here at her bedroom desk, getting it onto paper. Yesterday’s date. What she’d said.

Swish, swirl, full whirl. A storm takes shape in front of her. Within her.

She’d told Ari. About what Mom had done, how she’d taken every penny that could possibly be coming to her — and then some — how she’d manipulated the system, how truth could be a pliant thing in her hands, stretching like putty, changing shapes. Aviva had explained how that’s why she herself couldn’t bear to take from any organizations, how she couldn’t bring herself to use them. As though refraining could be an atonement of sorts.

How did it go from awkward small talk to telling him about Mom?

Because that’s how it had been, like a blink in time. There was an old familiarity to their conversation. And just like that, she took a step onto the bridge he’d made with his gentle question.

Why hadn’t she done this last year?

She splashes green across her canvas. She couldn’t have, then. She’s a different person today. Then she was living with Mom, was almost submerged in the situation. There was no way she could get on the bridge then.

But now?