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Thank you thank you thank you.
Not for him. For the sun. For burning up its helium or whatever and sending its warmth in my direction. “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
“Thanks for the warm welcome.” He’s peaceful about it though, like he’s got all the time in the world for this and I’m entertaining him with my insolence. He checks out the small space unhurriedly. The art supplies I spent time yesterday setting up. Then his eyes meet mine. “I think you know what I’m doing here.”
“Honestly, I don’t. And don’t say you’re channeling your inner artist.” I don’t want to sound rude, not at all. But I need some kind of barrier between us and I already feel it crumbling. He’s the human equivalent of a super-strength magnet, pulling at all the cravings I never knew I had until now. “We both know that’s something you made up.”
“I thought of it last night when we were talking at the party,” he admits. “I couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing when I might see you again. This way, I can see you whenever I want to.”
“This class is three mornings a week,” I point out.
“Gwen gave me my own studio. It happens to be right across the hall from yours.”
I glare at him and it’s basically like trying to stare at a superhero. You can’t do it, is what I’m finding, because they can match your stare with beams of intensity that are far more powerful than the courage you try your best to project but don’t always succeed. “Why, Elias?”
He comes over, taking all the time in the world, and leans a burly shoulder against the frame of the window seat. “Because. The first time I saw you I couldn’t believe you were real. I still can’t.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Saying the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”
“It’s true.”
“But what does it even mean?”
“It means you’re perfect.”
I can feel my eyes narrow for a second. “Can you stop that, please? I’m definitely not perfect. Not even close. I’m also a freshman who happens to be your football coach’s daughter, remember? It’s a very bad idea for you to even be here right now.”
“I know.” No remorse though. Not even a hint of it.
“You know? Then why are you here?”
“Because I’ve been…” He pauses for a second, like he’s not sure how to explain himself. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time. I was starting to think I wouldn’t find you.”
“How can you have been looking for me, Elias? It doesn’t make any sense. I only got here a few days ago.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly?”
“I’ve been looking for you since before you even arrived.”
Here he goes again, speaking in riddles, acting like this whole forbidden thing between us is either pre-destined or a joke, I can’t quite figure out which.
“I’ve been tormented. Tormented,” he says again, for emphasis. “Ask Gabriel if you don’t believe me. I was all fucked up about it.”
“About what?”
“Thinking you didn’t exist. Then I looked up and there you were.”
God, he’s infuriating. “There I was? You mean when I was going to see my dad at the stadium?”
“Yes. You looked so fucking beautiful I couldn’t believe it. All the light in that stadium landed on you, like you were some kind of mythical creature created just for me. You can’t expect me to just ignore that. Especially since I’ve been waiting for you to show up for so long.”
I’m not sure what to do with this. I mean, yes, it’s nice. It’s almost heartbreakingly flattering. I’ve never really thought of myself as beautiful before. In fact I haven’t spent a lot of time worrying about or even thinking about my looks, to be honest. I’m the kind of introvert that basically can’t do social media because the thought of putting my photo all over the internet for other people’s approval makes me cringe and practically have a panic attack. Which isn’t exactly a recipe for creating a gigantic platform (possibly part of the reason I haven’t been picked up by a gallery, because they expect that of artists these days). But to hear it gushed like that, from him of all people…“Elias—”
