She had a beehive in her pocket.

Or at least it seemed to be one as her cell buzzed furiously.

Will you come to dinner today? - Love, Mum.

She sighed and worried her lip for a moment, reading the message, which was displayed on the screen of her cell phone, over and over again, until the digits faded and she only saw black lines on a white background. The words stayed with her; taken in by her eyes, swirling through her mind and dropping through her throat, across her heart into her stomach where they rested like a painful knot of resentment, disappointment and longing.

"Miss!" Someone before her called.

Irritated Robin rose her gaze from her phone towards the ticket guy, who talked to her.

"I'm sorry, Miss. No cell phones allowed," he said.

She sighed. Seriously?

Could this day get any worse?

Not that it had started bad.

It had been a regular day so far. She had been awake at the first beep of the alarm and up to press the button on the prepared coffee maker before going to take a shower even before her roommate had shown any sign of life.

Robin was the kind of girl who dove into stuff head first. She did not linger on second thoughts, did not dwell on misgivings and she certainly did not let anything come into her way; on rare occasions something did, she just ran over it.

But she was also a human being with a beating heart and enough compassion – she had left her bitchy days from high school behind her at some point during college – as to not let her roommate down on visiting this exhibition together.

After his recent break-up with Ella he had opted for destroying the tickets but Robin had talked him into going anyway, which had led him to ask if she wanted to tag along and Robin had not been able to say "No" which in the end had brought her here: Waiting next to Henry for the doors to the exhibition to open and being told to put her phone away by some guy wearing a too tight shirt and definitely too much gel in his hair. One glance was enough for Robin to conclude that he must have barely tripped over the threshold of puberty.

"Sorry," she mumbled, preventing her eyes from rolling, and stuffed the phone into the pocket of her brown leather jacket.

It was for the better anyway.

The longer she held the phone in her hand the more would she be trapped in the question of to answer or not to answer. This way the problem would sort out itself. By the time they would leave this thing, it would be too late to go back to the apartment to change and then cross half of Seattle to get home – or rather the place she had called home until a few months ago before she had started crashing on her cousin Henry's couch.

"You really didn't have to come," Henry said to her, retrieving scheme A of the book about making awkward conversation.

She looked at him from the side. He had his hands buried in his pockets and was looking up ahead. But she noticed the slump in his shoulder and the deep line carved between his eyebrows and the way strands of his dark hair had fallen out of place. Sympathizing, she gave him a crooked smile, "Would you have went alone?"

"No, probably not," her cousin mumbled lowly.

"Then I did have to save you from mopping over a blinking cursor on a blank screen," Robin retorted.

"Thanks," Henry said with a forced smile.

Forced but it was a smile nevertheless. She was satisfied for now and nudged him into the side with an elbow and a grin, "You're welcome, roomie."

He had been miserable these last few weeks because of the harsh breakup. Had stayed up late to write and to produce nothing in the end. Had slept as late as he could in regard to his job and had started to suck on his radio story, which had been actually kinda good before.

But Robin was fairly sure Henry and Ella would get back together. They were one of those couples that went off and on again but in the end were kinda endgame. They just needed to stop tiptoeing around each other. Not that Robin had a great relationship record. She just hadn't found the one person who'd make her want to make a fool out of herself the way Henry did. Who the hell writes themselves into their own novel anyway?

He was a great guy, though. His problems with Ella came from her fear of commitment based on the whole abandonment story with her mother and his geeky and hesitant nature.

For what it was worth, Robin did not mind accompanying him to this lame exhibition, if it brought some of his spirit back.

Though, she started to wonder, when they would open the goddamn doors. This was just an art exhibition not a royal gala.

Bored Robin looked around, her gaze fell onto the banner in graffiti style, announcing the Artists of Tomorrow presented by the Center on Contemporary Art. Her face scrunched up, having no idea whatsoever about art. She could only imagine what she would have to deal with. A pot of dying flowers being sold as art? Blots of color described as "postmodern"? Who knew?  

Second by second she grew more and more tired of waiting and rocked back and forth on the heels of her boots. Under her breath she grumbled, "When is this thing opening up?"

"Relax, it's been just a few minutes," Henry replied.

Even so it felt like hours. Not being excited about this so-called event was not making the wait any easier.

She let her gaze wander over the line of people up front. Couples, groups but nobody interesting caught her sight. Glancing over her shoulder she did not see anything of interest either. That was until she spotted a wild mop of golden blonde hair bouncing around. Surprised she observed the movement and finally noticed that the person the blonde mop belonged to was doing the same thing she had done a minute ago: Rocking back and forth on her heels, only with more energy put into the motion.

Robin's lips curled and she leaned to the side to see the face of the person a few feet down the row. She wasn't lucky, though, because before she was able to unravel the mystery, Henry startled her out of her private investigation. "Here we go," he told her. The only further impression Robin got of the blonde mop were black army boots and leggings and a red shirt before she turned away again.

"Great, let the games begin," Robin drawled and fell into the slow steps of the row moving towards the entrance.

"Don't be so grim about it," Henry said while squeezing past an arguing couple, wrinkling his red, checked shirt against the brawny guy's denim jacket. "Who knows? Maybe you'll find you have a secret thing for art. Some of the pieces exhibited here were called to be the most promising artwork of this decade by the press."

"Because we know the press is always telling the truth," Robin stated mockingly, burying her hands in the pockets of her denim.

"In every fairy tale lies truth," Henry countered in a slow, mystefying tone while they entered the actual building and held up both their tickets.

"And you should know that, 'cause you're the author of a selling book," Robin teased, while shoving the ticket the security handed back to her with its now torn off edge into the back pocket of her pants.

"Exactly!" Henry cheered with a big smile.

Chuckling, Robin quickly mapped the room in her mind. It was a large, former industry hall, now used to showcase artwork. Maybe this was art itself? She didn't know.

When a waitress walked by, who carried a tray filled with flutes, Robin grabbed two. Holding one out for Henry she said, "Just point me through the good stuff and we'll see about my undiscovered love for art."

It was safe to say Robin was no big fan of art. She never understood the deal about standing in front of a painting and look at it for minutes without blinking an eye. It wasn't her idea of entertainment. Action was more suitable to her style.

But – to be honest – she had to admit there was something alluring about the echo of numerous steps of a bunch of people droning through the hall, about the carton walls erected in certain forms displaying the pieces of art and the sparkling wine fizzing away, while Henry led her through the exhibition, providing some sort of helpful information and insight to art styles and structures.

There was a lot to see.

Puzzles of styles, old and new, mosaics of paintings, missing spots, frames without canvas, canvas without frames – there was no clear threat in the composition. Though, maybe that was the threat.

Some of the stuff was not bad at all and Robin became less opposed the more she saw.

While emptying her flute she let her gaze wander over the art pieces, when all of a sudden one of them captured her full attention.

Transfixed Robin stopped in front of one painting hidden in some kind of maze-like structure of carton walls in the middle of the hall. The painting did not seem modern at all, neither the way it was painted nor the subject: a sailing ship caught in the storming sea. She heard Henry say something about revived romanticism as her eyes took in the picture, the rough strokes forming waves and clouds, the detailed lines of the ship, threatened to be swallowed by the rage of the scary and dark sea. It was a harsh scene. And yet, Robin felt a sense of longing transmitted by the picture which nested in her own heart.

Was it because of the colors? The shades? She had no idea.

When she noticed Henry's voice drifting away, she tore her gaze from the painting and let it flee over the tag beneath before she followed him as he continued his walk through the maze.

Robin was less focused on what he said, though, still trying to figure out the yearning in her heart that had been caused by the picture. She felt strangely allured to the words on the tag and they resounded in her mind, 'A. Jones, Captain's Call. (Oil on linen.)' She could not explain why on earth she would be so encaptured by an old-fashioned painting of a ship. She did not even like boats. Hated them, actually, thanks to her seasickness.

After a while Henry seemed to have caught up on her change of mood when he turned away from the exhibited paintings and bumped his shoulder into hers, startling her out of her inner debate. "So your phone earlier, was that Aunt Zelena?"

Robin immediately frowned at the mention of her mom but recovered quickly.

"She wanted to know if I'd come to dinner tonight," she told Henry as offhandedly as her voice allowed it regarding the subject, despite it being pointless to feint coolness. Henry knew the reasons of her argument with her mom; all the little details of the dirty and old secret that their family had tried to hide for years and he knew how trying the circumstances were for Robin.

"Will you?" He raised an eyebrow at her as they continued their stroll through the maze and circled around visitors.

"And miss this?" With a smirk Robin nodded to the side, roughly the direction of one of the carton walls. She buried her hands into the pockets again but couldn't suppress the nervous wiggle of her thumbs.

"Robin," Henry breathed out.

Robin sighed and stopped walking. While he had been very understanding since the evening she had knocked on his door with bloodshot eyes and a traveling bag, Henry had also, more than once, tried to go Freud on her and aimed to talk her into resolving things with her mom. Facing him fully now to make her point clear, she told him, "Look, I know you're older. You don't have to give me any speeches. I will face my demons in time. I'm just not ready yet."

"Okay, I get it," he raised his hands signaling his willingness for a truce and they picked up their stroll again.

And that should have been it.

In a perfect world where everybody said what they were supposed to say when they were supposed to say it, the conversation would have been over. The world was not perfect, though. Her very own mother was a testament to this fact. And so Robin couldn't let it go as the topic rekindled her anger and hurt from her mom's behavior. After a few more steps she pointed out, "You would feel the same way, if it was the other way around."

"Which is impossible because my mom adopted me," he replied, sarcasm dropping from his voice before he skipped her a sympathetic smile and gave her a pat onto the shoulder. "But you know, their feud has been long over. They made up and you should learn to forgive your mom, too, like mine did."

As if it was that easy.

Maybe in a perfect world it would have been. She would text back her mom that she'd be at home in time for dinner, settle with whatever apology or excuse her mom would lay out for her and go to sleep on her comfy mattress instead of a worn out couch in the kitchen-cum-living room of a semi-successful author. But then again, in a perfect world there wouldn't have been a reason for her to run away either.

Here she was: 22 years old, a dysfunctional mother-daughter-relationship, a college degree but no clear prospect what she would do with it, her cousin's couch to sleep on and no idea where she would go from here.

Robin never dwelt on misgivings. But sometimes their extent was too massive to ignore.

She swallowed hard against the strain on her throat. Skipping her gaze down to the empty flute, she decided to catch a breath of fresh air. "I need a refill. Want some?"

"No, I'm good," Henry said with his fawn colored eyes dropping but, thankfully, he said no more, letting her follow the escape route she desperately needed right now.

She marched through the maze, finding the exit easily thanks to the arrows sprayed to the ground. They were pieces of art on their own but, right now, Robin couldn't seem to care less about that.

She sighed and rounded the last corner.

It was just her luck that as she was about to leave the maze she crashed into something – or rather someone based on how soft the hindrance felt.

Cold liquid splashed over her favorite green shirt.

Shocked, she gasped out, "What the hell?"

A/N: If you liked this chapter, please, consider to give it a vote.

What do you think? How did you like the playful banter between Robin and Henry?