Xander ran hot and cold so fast, I wasn’t sure I could keep up. Wasn’t sure I wanted to try. I’d heard of artists being temperamental, sure. Arrogant assholes, absolutely. But this was…different. He seemed… I searched for the right word before settling on afraid. Terrified, even. And I was foolish enough to want to know why.
Chapter Seven
Isank down on the couch, knowing I was going to lose her, lose the spark of inspiration, if I didn’t fess up. I couldn’t let that happen—not when I’d felt something for the first time since my accident. Not when I had a deadline looming.
I swallowed hard, feeling the panic rising in me with every second that passed until, finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “I can’t draw,” I blurted.
She frowned. “What do you mean, you can’t draw? Of course you can draw. I’ve seen your work. It’s beautiful.”
I absently rubbed the skin of my wrist. “You’ve seen my workbeforethe accident.”
She took a seat next to me. “Have you tried painting since?”
I nodded. I didn’t know why I trusted her, but something told me I could. Maybe it was that spark of inspiration, that thread of hope. Maybe it was the fact that she’d agreed to pose for me despite her fears and reservations. Whatever it was, now that I’d opened my mouth, the words seemed to come pouring out.
“I’ve tried so many times. Day after day.”
“What happens?” Her voice was calm, gentle like a lover’s caress. And it encouraged me to continue.
“I, um…nothing.”
“Nothing?” She furrowed her brows. “Show me.”
I pressed my hands against my thighs, surprised I didn’t feel more humiliated. Considering the fact that she was a student and I was a professor, I should’ve been. Yet Kate made me feel nothing but safe. Like I could share my thoughts without fear of sounding silly or ridiculous. I realized then that I hadn’t really talked about the accident with anyone—at least not in anything more than medical terms.
I shuffled over to the easel, a knot forming in my stomach as she followed. I picked up the charcoal, lifted it to the paper, and tried to force myself to draw.
Nothing.
Come on.I urged my arm closer, but my hand shook so badly I finally gave up and lowered it.
“Hmm.” She tilted her head to the side, evaluating me. “And you’ve been cleared to draw?”
“Yes, but my hand gets fatigued easily, and I don’t have full range of motion.” I held it up again as if to demonstrate. Despite months of physical therapy, nothing could compensate for the fact that my wrist would never fully recover. But that’s what happened when you fractured both your radius and ulna.
“Can I try something?” Her tone lacked any judgment, projecting only kindness, empathy.
“Sure.” I lifted a shoulder. At this point—why not? I mean, really, what did I have to lose? I was less than six weeks out from a massive exhibition—my first since the accident—and nothing else had worked.
“Stand. Let’s move this out of the way,” she said as she scooted the barstool aside. “Charcoal, please.”
I watched her with what I was sure was a puzzled expression. She stood at the easel, hand poised above the paper.
“Place your hand over mine,” she said, and I hesitated a moment before she gave me an encouraging nod. “Come on. I won’t bite.”
I shuffled closer to both her and the easel, our bodies nearly touching. The scent of her hair, her skin, calmed me, making me forget about my worries, my fears. All I could see and feel and think of was her.
“Now,” she said, and I could almost feel her voice vibrating through her back and into my chest, my heart. “I’m going to close my eyes. Pretend I know nothing about drawing. Teach me.”
I stood there for a moment, lost in the feel of her. I no longer viewed the paper as an intimidating blank canvas mocking me. It was a clean slate, a chance to create something new. And it wasn’t my jacked-up hand attempting to paint; it was her beautiful one. There was no pressure, there were no expectations, there was only us.
I made my first mark, and I felt lighter already. And then I kept going—another and another. Music played softly in the background, but her breath kept a steady beat. It was as if I were painting her heartbeat as it translated through my chest and into my arm. I’d never experienced art in such a visceral way, and it opened my eyes to the beauty and joy of collaborating with another person.
Lines slashed across the paper. Darker strokes and lighter. It was wild and unrestrained, much like her. It was abstract, yet so freeing.
I didn’t know how long we stayed like that—I lost track of time. And it was only when we finally lowered our hands that I felt the exertion of it, the slight cramp in my hand and arm from lack of use.
Even still, it was one of the most intense physical experiences I’d ever shared with another person, and we’d barely touched. Somehow, the act of drawing together, our bodies moving in a sort of slow tango, had created an intimacy unlike any other.
