Sweet Love - Mia Kayla Page 0,8

an improved look, and it’s gonna be great,” Casey said, pride heavy in her tone, sitting taller.

“Yeah, I’d work on the overall look first. The fact is, the branding is outdated. The packaging is something out of the ’80s, which I get. It should be out of the ’80s because Thomas Colby started the company in the ’80s.” I reached into my purse, plucked out the black leather-bound notebook that my father had given me, and placed it on the table.

I remembered the day he’d brought it home, wrapped in thin silver gift-wrapping paper. It was an actual sketchbook—not the normal lined paper from school, but my first actual sketchbook.

My father had been the first to point out that I had an innate talent to draw. Not only did I love to draw, but I was also good at it.

During the last days when he had been sick, I remembered him looking up at me from the hospital bed and simply saying, “Draw me something, Charlie.” It was like him saying, Sing me something.

I pushed the memories back to where no one could touch them, where they couldn’t hurt me, where I didn’t have to think about them anymore.

My hand did what I always knew how to do—sketched. “This is what I’m talking about, guys. It’s all about the packaging, the feeling, the look.” I lightly tapped the pen against my chin, thinking.

“Maybe it’s the color. This brown is outdated. We need something neutral that would appeal to the older generations but also kids.” I sketched a rectangular box and then did little strokes inside of the box. “Let’s think of the name of an imaginary candy bar that we own.” I twisted the pen within my fingertips. “It can be … Chewy Caramel, and then in tiny lettering, we could have the signature Colby name.”

I drew horizontal lines inside of the box, my mind twisting with new ideas. “I think their Crunch Bar is the most popular …” I sketched little bite marks on the inside of the rectangle. “Funch,” I said without a second thought. “A fun approach to crunch. It could also mean, family with crunch.” I lifted my head and shrugged. “It’s a Funch bar.”

I placed the name on our imaginary chocolate.

Alyssa turned my sketchbook around, toward them, and shrugged. “That would work. That would actually work. You can always say, I’m gonna Funch you in the face with this Funch bar.”

Her statement caused Casey to laugh.

“What do we have here?” Casey flipped to the next page of my sketchbook, to a picture of the beach and some seagulls.

The beach was one of my favorite places to go. It reminded me of my youth, of family times. When I had been younger, during the weekends, we’d have a picnic in the sand and build sand castles.

I stared at the sketch for a long while, nostalgia hitting me directly in the chest.

“You, Charlie, have talent. Shit …” Casey flipped through each and every page, breaking me from my thoughts, and confidence filled my shoulders, forcing me to straighten. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

I threw my beer back and smiled, my gaze dipping down to the table. “Thanks.”

There was nothing like getting validation through compliments about your craft, nothing like it on earth.

“Chin up. Take it like a woman. Say thanks and acknowledge that you’re good at what you do.” That was what my father always told me because I had a hard time with taking compliments.

“Let me see what you have there.” Alyssa pulled the sketchpad away from Casey, and both of them leaned over my drawings, flipping through the pages—the abstract figures, one of a billboard I’d passed on the train, the Chicago skyline. The one they were currently gawking at was a naked figure … a male naked figure … a very attractive male naked figure.

“I think I will have to take up drawing really soon.” Alyssa’s sultry voice was tinged with amusement. She grabbed the base of the wineglass and took another sip. She smiled, assessing me. “You’re definitely in the wrong profession.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though she were saying the sky was blue and the grass was green or that this beer was wonderful.

I wished she could speak to my mother, who thought art was just a hobby and that my drawings were simply there to entertain myself.

I could hear her words loudly in my ears. “Pretty paintings are not gonna make you money, honey.”

I’d show her that Daddy