“Springtime,” she sings.
“Ahhh,” Colin sings back. “Why is that?”
She shrugs in response, her lips pushing out into a thoughtful, pink pout. “I like the sounds the birds make when the sun comes up.”
“Me too,” he agrees. “And how does the springtime make you feel?”
“Feel?” she parrots, tilting her head to the side and furrowing her brows. Colin only nods encouragingly, letting the silence guide her thoughts. “Happy!” she finally squeals, jumping into the air.
“Where?” Colin volleys back to her, and she doesn’t hesitate to lift her hands into the air.
“Here.” Her little pointer fingers tap her ears, and then she moves one to her mouth and pushes her lips out in a pout again. “And here, because I like to sing with the birdies.”
“That’s very sweet, Laney,” I say to her. She gives me a small smile in return, and her cheeks tinge a light pink as she finds her seat again.
“Chloe.” Colin shifts his attention to me and my heart dances from it, my own cheeks heating under his stare. “Favorite season,” he prompts me.
I sweep my gaze across the class, and all the kids are staring at me expectantly, their eyes wide and some of their mouths hung open in excitement, like my answer is on the tip of their tongues.
“Winter.” I turn my attention to the front of the room as Colin tilts his head, slipping his hands into his pockets. The movement is so natural, both comforting and demanding, and I’m desperate to please him.
“Why?” The seriousness in which he’s taking his teaching duties is both silly and heartwarming at the same time.
“I like the cold.” We hold each other’s stare, and I only vaguely hear the disagreements from the children whispering throughout the room around us, but Colin is zeroed in on me. I can’t focus on anything but the way his scrutiny lights my body up.
Truthfully, there is something I love about all seasons. Just like Laney, I love springtime when the flowers bloom and the birds sing, when every day feels like a new beginning. I love the hot summers and feeling the glide of the cool water against my skin when I swim. And who doesn’t love fall? When the leaves change and the heat eases, and nature reminds you that you molt and die just so you can come back again, maybe better than before. But winter…“It makes me feel alive.”
“Where?”
I swallow, breaking eye contact before bringing my hands to my cheeks. “Here,” I rasp, feeling the phantom sensation of my cheeks heated by the sun on a cold, December day. “And here.” I move my hands from my cheeks and spread my fingers out, wiggling them in the air as I feel the heat from a fire against my fingertips on a dark, frigid night. Then I turn my wiggling fingers on Jeremiah next to me, tickling his sides until the entire class has fallen into vicarious squirming and giggling.
“Alright, alright,” Colin calls, drawing our attention back to him. “I want you to paint how your favorite season makes you feel. It doesn’t need to be something specific like a flower or a snowflake. It can be a blend of colors, it can be shapes and lines, whatever you feel when you think about it.” He cups his hands together in a clap and moves toward the table withthe paints on it, beginning to divide the supplies and hand them out to the kids.
I attempt to help, but he stops me with a hand on my wrist and a demand tosit.
Like I’m adog.
But fuck, I am for him. So I sit my ass down and wait until he delivers my items, and then I turn my attention to my canvas while he settles into his seat in front of me.
I try to stay focused on the goal, but his presence in my peripheral distracts me. I let out a soft chuckle when I think about his suggestion that the painting could just be a blend of colors. It’s a great idea, and I’m sure it will result in a lot of beautiful art, but I’m also sure he wanted to save himself from having to paint something realistic like that sad panda of his.
He lifts his eyes from his work every now and then to study the kids in the room. Catching my stare, he gives me a smile with an easy pull of his lips and a lift of his brow, and then returns his focus to whatever he’s painting. I wonder what his favorite season is and how it makes him feel, and I force myself to paint my feelings onto the white, scratchy surface in front of me.
Wanda pops her head into the room at one point, silently alerting me and Colin that she’s starting to settle the mothers into their lunch-hour class. A while later, Colin rises from his spot and wanders around the room, quietly chatting with the kids about what they painted and why.
My skin buzzes when he disappears behind me, and I slowly start to hear his voice come into focus as he moves from one kiddo to the next. I finally feel the heat of him at my back, and I straighten to feel the brush of his chest on my shoulder blades.
“Tell me about it.” His demand is quiet, his words sounding captivated. I reach a hand out to my canvas, ghosting my fingertips across the drying paint, smearing strips of dark paint into light.
Most of the painting is some sort of blend of dark and light. The center of the canvas is a blurry circle of yellow and gold, grey and black surrounding it like a shadow, and then the edges spread out into silver and white.
“It’s like looking into a window,” I tell him. “It’s warm inside. And quiet. The only light is from the candles.” I bend my neck to glance back at him, and he nods at me to go on. I turn back to the canvas and trace my fingers from the center of the canvas to the dark shadow surrounding it. “It’s black in the corners of your vision, because your eyes haven’t adjusted to the contrast. To the darkness.” I swallow, my fingers moving absently from the black to the edges of silver and white that expand into the corners. “But behind you, it’s so bright. It’s snowing, and the moon is shining on the soft, white floor.” Clearing my throat, I pull my hand back into my lap, rubbing the smudges of paint between my fingers. “It’s jarring. Scary, maybe. But…cozy, and safe.”
He's silent behind me, and all I can feel is the push and pull of his chest against my back as he breathes and studies the canvas. Studiesme. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears, even though the children are bustling around the room and taking in each other’s pictures.
“You know?” I finally ask.
His response is so quiet that I almost miss it when he says, “Yeah.”
