Page 9

I'm waiting for him to invite me over on the bed next to him. Maybe he'll be one of those guys who asks me to sit on his lap. Have a drink with him. Give him a little kiss on the cheek.

The goosebumps on my skin turn cold.

Then, I hear him stand up from my bed with a despondent sigh.

"Stay in your room, Sunny. When your mom has these parties…you just stay up here, okay? Lock the door and don’t let anyone in."

My head snaps toward where he's standing in my doorway, his gaze on me where I’m kneeling on the floor.

"Okay?" he presses.

“Why?”

“Because…you’re too good for anyone at this party, and I don’t want to see you ending up like them.”

There’s a tired expression of surrender in his eyes. He looks like he hates himself for saying it—but says it anyway.

“Okay?” he urges again, this time sounding assertive and serious.

I nod.

"Bring me that painting when it's done," he orders, jerking his head toward the canvas.

Looking back at the girl, I let my brow furrow in confusion. "You want it?"

"Yeah, I'll buy it. Can you finish it by next weekend?"

I nod again.

"Good. Bring it on Saturday."

Then, he just turns and leaves me speechless on the floor of my room. When the door clicks shut, the silence feels heavy—as if he left something behind. Or took something with him.

I finish the painting that night, but I barely sleep the entire week, overthinking and worrying about the curve of her lips. Is it too much like a smile or not enough? Should I redo it?

I've never sold a piece before. So, this has me on edge. Is the color right? Does she still have the look Alexander wanted?

The interaction in my room kept replaying in my head the entire time I painted it. I can’t read him. At first, I figured he just wanted to hang out, be a friend, as I was the safe option. The person he didn’t have to try so hard around…but there was something more. When he asked my age, it changed. Like he was checking to see how illegal it would be to touch me. Then he told me to stay in my room like he was my dad.

Did he want to protect me or preserve me?

Which one do I want?

I don’t see Alexander for the rest of the week. Nearly every day, I find myself standing in my backyard, peeking over the hedges toward his house, hoping to catch a glimpse. My bedroom window overlooks the yard too, and I keep my blinds open more than not now in hopes I’ll catch a sighting.

Where this sudden fascination came from, I don’t know. I think it was in the way he regarded my work, like it was more than a silly hobby. Or maybe it was the way he sat in my bedroom without making a single pass at me.

Or maybe it’s because regardless of how much older he is than me, I find him achingly attractive. Like he’s so nice to look at it actually hurts.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to deliver this painting today and be done with it. I’ll probably never even see him again…since I’m supposed to lock my door during my mother’s parties now. And I’ll be moved out before long anyway.

On Saturday morning, while Mom and Cadence are still sleeping, I wrap the canvas in paper to protect the texture of the paint and walk it through the backyard, between the hole in the hedges and up to Alexander's house.

It occurs to me as I reach his back porch that I should really be going through the front door, but I'm already here. I could just leave the package outside, but what if the wind knocks it over or he doesn't notice it?

This was a terrible idea.

When I reach the sliding glass door that leads to his kitchen, I find myself about to knock.