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After my little discussion with Chandra, she and Jeremy retreated to her room, and I corralled myself in the living area, waiting for Foster to arrive.
Her words did nothing but frustrated the hell out of me. She has no idea about the relationship, or lack thereof, that Foster and I have grown into. Sure, we might have become closer over the past few months, but we’re still nothing more than friends. Well, there is a little more, but he and I have an understanding.
Screw her and her stupid probing.She’s making a mountain out of a molehill.
There’s a light knock at the door.
That’s Foster.
Shaking out my hands, I step toward the dark wooden entrance and dispose of Chandra’s ludicrous suggestions in order to concentrate on the task at hand. Foster is here to help me, and I don’t need her illogical ideas flooding my mind. Those are her opinions and not mine.
Opening the door, I greet the man whose form is exceedingly familiar. I’ve been sketching him for weeks now. It’s almost like my hands have some semblance of muscle memory to all his angles.
“Hey, thanks for coming.” I step back to allow him to enter, noticing a surge of cold sweat erupting on my palms.
“No problem,” Foster says, joining me inside.
I close the door and wipe the uncalled for embarrassing moisture from my hands. Then, I proceed through the apartment with Foster on my heels, and we head toward my bedroom where all the supplies have been set up and arranged. Crossing the threshold, I pick up the apron from a nearby chair, loop it over my head, and tie the straps around my waist.
“This isn’t really what I was expecting,” Foster remarks, slowly shutting the door behind him. “Are you planning on killing me?”
My mouth slacks. “What? No!”
“This place looks like a kill room. There’s enough plastic in here to bag a body—or ten.”
“Funny.” I turn up the heat, adjusting the thermostat over his shoulder to make the room more comfortable for his soon-to-be lacking attire. “There will be no killing. I promise. Now, take off your shirt.”
“You’re so commanding.”
“At times.”
Foster drops his bag to the floor and unzips the main compartment. He shifts through the contents, finds what he’s looking for, and holds out his arm, presenting me with a small bundle of art brushes wrapped in a red ribbon.
“What is this for?” I ask, taking the offering.
“I saw these at a supply store the other day when I was…getting something for a lab assignment, and I thought you might like them,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Thanks,” I utter, confused. “That’s considerate.”
“You’re welcome. You go through them all the time. I just figured…you could use more.”
My thumb grazes the tips of the soft bristles, fanning them one by one, as Foster and I both stare at the unexpected gift in my hand. The tips have a velvety smooth texture that is pliable to my touch. I revel in their untainted newness. There’s something special about the clean fibers, like they hold future memories waiting in my dreams.Who knows what these will create?
“So, should we get started?” Foster questions, refocusing our attention to the task at hand. “I have a class and need to leave in about an hour.”
“Yeah, of course.” I set the gift on the desk. “I don’t want you to be late. Thank you again so much for doing this.”
“Sorry to rush you, and you’re more than welcome,” he says, removing his glasses and resting them next to the gift on the desk.
“I hope you aren’t missing anything to be here.”
“Just a club meeting, but it’s not a big deal.”
“You didn’t need to do that. We could have arranged to meet another time.”
“I don’t mind.”
Foster pulls the blue knit sweater and gray T-shirt with a comic book character print over his head and then shoves them into his bag. When he rises, a sudden sense of discomfort whips through me from the sight of his skin, and I avert my attention toward the stack of supplies laid out for the mold.
