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“Yes?” She pauses in the doorway, brows crumpled.
“Did anyone mention finding a sketchbook?” I ask, hopeful she may have it and forgot to give it to me.
That thought dies when she tells me, “No.” She leans her head, sympathy in her gaze. “Losing a sketchbook is dreadful for us artists, huh? I remember that happening to me once.” She tsks. “Hope you find it.” She continues out the door.
My shoulders sag as I steer back to the easel, pulling for inspiration within and feeling overwhelmed instead. Nothing is coming to mind.
I stare out the window at the beautiful clear sky, and the vast flower garden. At the football field across the way, with athletes practicing.
What should I paint?
Massaging my temples, I scrub my brain for ideas until something occurs.
I recall the chaos in the room at the guest house, including the mess on the bed.
Picking up a brush, I dab it in paint and start the first strokes, coming alive with excitement the more colors I apply.
It’s evening by the time I finish and stand back to look over my artwork.
“All done?” Brandon’s voice resounds.
Startled, I yelp and cut to the doorway. “Hey. How long have you—”
“I just came.” He smirks. “I was waiting in the lot. Figured you were painting and didn’t want to disturb your process.” He walks over.
“You never do.”
Brandon comes around to see what I’ve painted. I glance at him, watching for his reaction.
He squares his shoulders, eyes glistening with sincerity. “This is…amazing.”
My lips tilt in satisfaction. “Thank you.” I look at the painting again, impressed with myself and how it came out.
Not only have I replicated the madness of colors on the wall, but I also captured the broken easel, torn paintings, and oil paint strewn across the bed.
Amid the mess, is a couple tightly woven in the seated position on the sheets, desperately holding on to each other. It’s a facsimile of Brandon and me, but of course, they’re wearing clothes to keep the artwork appropriate.
I shudder when Brandon brushes my cheek with the back of his hand.
He’s doing so much better.
I wonder if he feels lighter; if a weight has lifted from his shoulders after revealing his physical and emotional scars to me.
It warms my heart and gives a sense of honor that he trusts me.
Brandon smiles when I look into his eyes. “If Ms. Jung doesn’t pick yours, I’ll burn this place down.”
“Ugh.” I playfully slap his hand. “Brandon, everyone is just as talented. If I don’t make it to the exhibition, it’s okay.” I motion to the painting. “I’ll add this to my portfolio for Pratt. I love it regardless.”
My skin tingles from his affectionate circles in my back. It’s as if he’s saying he’s proud of me, among other things, without actual words.
Stepping away, I compose my thrashing heart, wash the paint from my hands, then grab my things to leave.
Brandon carries the painting for me, careful not to touch anywhere on the front.
He rests it on the backseat of his car.
“I’m hand-delivering this baby to Ms. Jung tomorrow,” I tell him once I buckle up. “Until then, it stays with me. I’m not taking any chances.”
