Page 73 of Mac Meyers Needs Me

I frown. “My girlfriend’s name is Fee, and I’m dating her because I like her, and not for any other reason.”

Her eyes flare, and she raises a hand. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Why not just ask if I’m still dating the same person, then?” My name is called, so I don’t have to stick around and listen to her defend herself. “That’s me. I’ll see you around.” I grab the bag and the tray with the coffees, and wave at Enid as I leave.

The brief, unpleasant conversation with Kerri is still rolling around in my head when I enter the studio.

Fee’s station is set up in the corner by the wall of windows. She’s wearing a long-sleeve oversized white button-down covered in a rainbow of paint splotches, and a pair of equally colorful baggy overalls. Her long, blond hair is pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head. A streak of pink paint runs from her ear down the side of her neck. She’s shoeless, and her socks are rainbow striped with the Tilton Blaze logo on them.

The canvas in front of her is nearly the same size as she is. The central focus is a couple in motion, moving toward each other, their emotions fanning out behind them in a pixelated rainbow that grows increasingly vibrant and saturated. It’s stunning and one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. It also reminds me of someone or something I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Hey! What happed to hockey practice?” She sets her brush down and rushes over to greet me, stopping before we collide. “Oh! I don’t want to ruin your jacket with paint splotches.” She pushes up on her toes and kisses the edge of my jaw.

“Fair, and I was at practice, but it’s over, and I don’t have classes this afternoon, so I brought coffee and food.” I hold up the bag and the tray.

Fee tips her head. “What time is it even?”

“After three.”

“Oh gosh. I completely lost track of time! I’ve been at it for hours already.”

“You good to take a break?” I ask.

“Yeah. Absolutely. How was practice?”

“Good. I've been a lot smoother lately.” I glance at her painting. “Am I allowed to check that out?”

“Of course.” She sets the coffee on a small table with two chairs and drops the bag next to it before shrugging out of her paint splattered shirt, leaving her in a T-shirt and overalls. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, but I’m getting there.”

I move in closer, absorbing the details. The rendering is next-level, the shading and depth make it look as though the couple is about to step out of the canvas, but it’s the rainbow of color streaming out from behind them that leaves me speechless, because it’s not just pixelated colors like I originally thought. Each dot is a tiny letter, spelling out an emotion that repeats and becomes more vibrant and saturated until it fades on the wind: love, hope, fear, need, desire, comfort, safety.

“This is freaking incredible, Fee. Like wow.” I make the mind-blown gesture. “I knew you were talented, but this is next-level.”

She rests her cheek against my shoulder for a second, then rubs it with her fingers, checking for paint. “Thanks. I’m sure my sister will have lots to say about it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Her nickname for me is Big Pheels, with a ph. It’s even my contact name in her phone.”

“That’s cute.” I smile.

“For a while it felt a little too real, but now I like it.”

“Because of your parents?” I ask softly.

“Yeah. My feelings were too much to handle for a while. I died my hair black and dove right into a solid emo phase, complete with The Cure’s Disintegration playlist on repeat. But I have some space and distance from that now.” She motions to the canvas full of bright colors. “I always miss them, and I doubt that will ever change, but it doesn’t hurt the same way it did when I first lost them.”

I shrug out of my jacket, let it fall to the floor, then tug my hoodie over my head, so I can fold her into a hug.

“What about your shirt?”

“I have lots of T-shirts, don’t worry about this one.” I settle my cheek on top of her head. “I can’t pretend to know how hard it must have been for you, or how difficult it still is, but I think it's brave of you to channel all those feelings into beautiful art.”

She tips her head back, eyes soft and watery, a faint smile on her lips. She settles her paint-splattered hand against my cheek. “You are the sweetest.”

“Just speaking my truth.” I squeeze her, and she squeezes back.

We stand there for a while, just holding each other, as I revel in her warmth and take in her painting. There’s something so familiar about it. It’s probably just the style being echoed from the hoodie I’m obsessed with wearing.