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We’re both wearing old clothes so if we get paint on them, it won’t matter. I’m rocking my ancient Backstreet Boys T-shirt with a hole in the armpit I’d completely forgotten about. Graham was quick to point it out after I took off my sweatshirt when we got here so I could get down to business.
“Like what you see, Price?” he asks, keeping his eyes on his work, and my stomach does a little flipping thing. Was that ... flirting? It kind of sounded like it.
I might not have even thought it, had freaking Joelle not gotten into my head with her comment last week. Ever since then I’ve been paying more attention to how he says things, looking for any nuance. But there hasn’t been anything to inspire thoughts of something more. And even if there were more, would I want to entertain those thoughts? I don’t know. Maybe.
I snort out a laugh. “Not even a little, you moldy piece of cheese,” I say back. “I was just imagining what you’ll look like in the hot-pink scrubs covered in sloths that I found.”
This is a lie. I mean, I did find the scrubs. But also ... I like what I see. How could I not? Graham is an attractive man. He always has been. Thirteen-year-old me can attest to that. But really, I just like that he’s here. This wouldn’t have been half as fun without him. Actually, I probably would have lasted only a couple more days after the food thing before calling it quits. I also don’t know if Morgan would have kept up with it. She’s busy being a teacher and planning a wedding. Her initial bossing me around might have lost its luster after a while. But with Graham joining me, she’s taken it even more seriously.
I don’t know if I would have jumped back into a pool if it hadn’t been for him and this challenge. I hope I would have; it feels silly waiting as long as I did, now that I’m back. But would I have enjoyed it this much if Graham hadn’t come along for the ride? So far, we’ve met up every morning. I don’t know how long that will last. I’m still surprised every time I show up at the rec center and he’s there waiting for me, even when he’s told me the night before he’d be there. I just keep waiting for it to end.
I haven’t had this much fun in a long, long time. And I know it’s due to the man sitting on the other side of this canvas, taking this challenge way too seriously. I love that he’s just as competitive as I am.
“We have just about thirty minutes left,” Betty informs us, and I focus on my painting so I really can pull out a win.
The half hour goes by quickly and I’m doing final touches when Betty says we need to wrap things up.
“You ready to cry, Dr. Shackwell?” I say, touching up one spot that was bothering me. I’m pleased with my painting. I think it’s good enough to hang in my condo. I’ll put it above the pink couch.
“I think you’d better get a tissue for yourself, Price,” he says, clapping back.
“You mean for when I cry tears of horror?”
He laughs at that one.
“Okay, are we ready to do this?” I ask.
“I’m ready,” he says.
We each lift our easels up and carefully turn them so they’re side by side.
I look at Graham’s. It’s not bad, actually. He’s missing the brushstrokes that I think are meant to look like wind, but he’s got all the other elements. The stars, the moon, the trees, and the town. Mine is clearly better, though.
“Nice effort, Price,” he says, pointing at my canvas with the end of the brush he’s still holding.
“Nice effort?” I repeat, giving him an appalled look. “Mine is clearly superior.”
He scoffs. “Hardly,” he says. “Your brushstrokes are weak.”
“Weak?” I say, my mouth falling open.
“Right here,” he says, pointing to the lower right of the canvas, where I may have missed a spot.
“You didn’t even do the wind,” I say, pointing to his.
Betty walks by at this point. “Well done, you two,” she says, her gray bob not moving a millimeter as she nods her head toward our work.
“Can you settle something for us,” I ask the older woman. “Which of these two is the better painting?”
“Oh,” Betty says, looking like I’ve just offended her greatly. “We don’t judge work in my class; everyone is an artist here. You both did a great job.”
“But if you had to pick,” I urge.
“Oh no.” She shakes a finger at me. “Art is subjective. This is not a competition.”
“You’re so right, Betty,” Graham says, giving the older woman a charming smile. “I apologize for my friend here. We all learned a lot tonight. You were an excellent teacher.” He gives her a wink.
“Well, thank you very much,” she titters, reaching up and touching the side of her hair, a coy look on her wrinkled face. “Thank you for coming to the class.” She says this only to Graham, ignoring me completely.
