But now there is Hal with his muscular arms and shapely legs, golden hair and lips that are the perfect shape for kissing, luring me right out of my comfort zone with radical attraction. He has told me straight up what he wants. But the question is, as amazing as he is, can he really truly want anything? Does it even matter as long as I get what I want? This is the sort of problem I’d normally talk through with Rani or FreeThought.
Suddenly my lab doesn’t feel comforting anymore, and for the first time since Rani came into my life, I feel alone in the world. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but it’s one I’d hoped I’d left far behind.
Reaching for the remote control, I make the glass of the ceiling clear, in case it helps to see the sky. For a while it does. A dreamy sort of peace falls over me like a soft blanket as I lie there, lookingup at the wispy clouds making their way lazily across the bright blue sky.
Then, very slowly, I realise where that feeling is coming from—the faintest edge of what has to be my earliest memory almost completely lost, like a dream in the few seconds after you wake.
I am very young, two maybe three. I’m with my mum, yes, it has to be my mum, lying in the long grass of a meadow and making animals out of the clouds. It’s the safest and most loved I have ever felt in my life. And it’s the farthest thing away from me that any can ever be.
Suddenly I need to go outside and feel the warmth of the sun on my face.
Chapter Thirty-One
Outside, the scent of flowers in full bloom and cut grass is carried on a gossamer light breeze. Walking through the formal gardens, I see Megan underneath one of the huge cedar trees engrossed in her sketchbook, lying on her stomach, her bare feet kicking in the air.
On the crest of a gently sloping hill that’s away from the neatly cut lawns of the castle I see Forrest, an easel set up in front of him. I watch him for a moment dipping in and out of view as he paints.
Curiosity points me in his direction and sets my feet in motion.
On the way I meet Artie and her aunt, sprawled out on a blanket.
“Hi.” River waves at me, lying on her back, with her hands cradling her head. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, pausing to look at Artie’s drawings, dozens of them performed with exuberant joy and a host of coloured pencils that are scattered all around her.
“Wow, Artie,” I say. “You are such a talented artist.”
“Thank you, I know,” Artie says, not looking up from her work. “When I’m finished I will show you all my drawings and we can talk about them.”
“I’m really looking forward to that,” I tell her, turning towards where Forrest is painting.
“Go take a look. He won’t mind,” River says, lifting her shades to make eye contact. “In fact, I feel like he would actually welcome it. I’ve heard a lot about you since I arrived.”
“Not sure that’s a good thing,” I say, watching him.
“The thing about my brother is, he always thinks everything is good, even when it’s hard. He’s the world’s most optimistic man. It drives me mad.”
“Well, I might just go and take a look, you know, in passing, whilst I am out on my planned walk.”
Before I know it, I’m standing next to Forrest, looking at his canvas. I expected it to be something “arty,” you know, abstract expressionism or something that is hard to understand, but it’s actually incredibly beautiful in the most unexpected way.
On one level, it is just the portrait of the castle on a warm summer’s day, but somehow, it’s also so much more than that. Not only has he conjured the heat in the air and the weight of history on the building, the strange otherness of it, in a world where schoolkids have to spend the night alone because their dad’s at work and he can’t afford to lose his job. It’s sort of like magic, I guess. I stare and stare at it, trying to figure how he’s woven all of that into a flat image made up of dabs of colour.
Eventually Forrest pauses. I notice the paint smudge on the tips of his fingers and on the inside of his wrist. I wonder what it’s like to push your fingertips into the fat blobs of oil paint and smear it on skin.
“Want to try?” he suggests lightly.
“Um... what?” I ask.
“Painting.” He chuckles, offering me the handle of a brush.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “I’d mess it all up for you.”
“I mean on your own canvas,” he says. He bends down, and I get a glimpse of the tanned, toned skin under the hem of his T-shirt and notice the way his muscular backside looks in those jeans. It looks okay, I guess, like the sculpture of the Venus de Milo is fine, and Pedro Pascal is perfectly okay.
“Here, take it,” he says, presenting me with a small, square canvas. I stare at it as if it might be ticking.
“Um, I wouldn’t know where to start,” I say. “I haven’t done art since I was in school, and even then, my teacher told me I was so bad at it that it offended his eyes.”
