AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Like most artists, Devlyn creates because the need is ingrained in him. A deep-seated urge to spill his emotions without speaking. To express himself without becoming one-hundred-percent vulnerable.
“Sounds more yes than no.”
“True.” He purses his lips a beat. “The downfall of these events is being in the spotlight. People asking about your personal life. Criticizing your work. Putting their two cents in. I don’t necessarily mind criticism from peers or people I look up to. They give me new perspective. Help me improve who I am as an artist. It’s the snooty folks who think, because they have art hanging in their house, they know whatgoodart looks like.”
I reach across the console and touch his bicep. “Ignore them.”
Briefly, he glances down at my hand on him. I pull it back and drop it to my lap before I spot the slight uptick of his lips. “I do my best. Isn’t always easy.” I don’t miss his brief glance at my hand again, and I wonder if he enjoyed the small physical connection.
Since the other morning, Devlyn and I haven’t touched. Friends don’t share intimate touch. And until I know how movie night and the morning after makes him feel, I am doing my damnedest to stay on my side of the friendship line. Keep our physical contact to arm bumps and the occasional hooked elbows. We don’t hug hello or goodbye like I do with my other friends or family. No teasing slaps on the arm or ruffling of hair. And we both know why.
To form a stronger connection—to touch easily, without second thought—our friendship would morph into more. Evolve beyond pizza lunches and walks in the park. Move beyond movie night with takeout and awkward mornings the next day. Blossom into something neither Devlyn nor I am prepared for, if I am honest with myself.
We haven’t talked much about our pasts, but I know someone hurt Devlyn. I see it in the way he fights his feelings. The hidden stares followed by cold shoulders. The invitation to spend time together accompanied by the reminder of that ugly line drawn in the sand.
Hurt bruises my heart that a past relationship shook him so deeply, he refuses to let it happen again. Refuses to let love in. By choice, he shelters his heart—well, he attempts to shelter it. I do and don’t understand, mainly because the subject has never come up. So, I grant him all the time he needs. Let this—us—be whatever it is while it exists. Let Devlyn set the pace. Allow him to set the tone and shape our relationship.
But I see the small cracks in his exterior. Notice how his stares last longer. Hear the undercurrent of desire and longing in his voice. Feel his warmth and impulsive need for physical contact when we exist in the same space. All of which weighs more heavily since my limbs tangled with his and he didn’t let go.
Is going at Devlyn’s pace fair? Not when I don’t know where his head is at.
But I like Devlyn, more than he’d deem comfortable. I enjoy our time together. The brief chats as well as the lengthy conversations. The fleeting lunches and hours strolling in the park. If we remain only friends, I consider myself lucky to have him. If we become more… loving Devlyn would be sublime.
When it comes to this complex man, I set no expectations.
He parks the car, exits, and jogs around to my open door. I open my mouth to ask what he is doing, but when my eyes meet his, I zip my lips and smile at the gesture. His chivalry may be unexpected, but I refuse to depreciate the moment. Not with the way my heart flip-flops in my chest.
This is not a date.
We walk into the gallery, elbows hooked, and are bombarded. The event doesn’t open to the general public for another thirty minutes. All the people flocking to Devlyn’s side are peers and professors and fellow local artists. People who have seen or heard of his work. His fan club.
Although Devlyn doesn’t care for the spotlight, he smiles and laughs and boasts about other artists whose work isbetter. Watching him here, now, I get another new side of him. He isn’t necessarily more outgoing, just more himself. More comfortable in his own skin around those who share the same passion.
I love this side of him.
After a few minutes, he introduces me to the group. He doesn’t introduce me as his girlfriend, but he also doesn’t introduce me as a friend either. Just Shelly. A low hum whirls beneath my diaphragm. A new layer of perspiration dampens my skin. I work to not let the moment go to my head. Much. Easier said than done.
“Want a drink before the doors open?” he asks.
“Please.” Lord knows I need something to temper the heat in my veins.
Drinks in hand, Devlyn guides us to the start of the exhibition. Tonight, there are seven local artists on display, including Devlyn.
Offering his elbow, my favorite smile of his makes an appearance. “Shall we?”
A fresh wave of heat blankets my skin as I hook my arm with his. I swallow past the thick swell of emotion in my throat and nod. “Yeah,” I say, voice hoarse and low. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Yes.”
The first showcase is Tomas Suarez. His medium of choice is watercolor and, as I gaze at each canvas, I am already at a loss for words. I never knew watercolor could be so bold. So evocative. Pops of bright blue and fuchsia. Subtle greens and soft yellow. Powerful yet subdued. Tomas paints landscapes, and this one reminds me of the meadow Devlyn painted in the shop—my meadow—but with softer lines. As if out of focus. We study his other pieces, digest their beauty, then move on to the next artist.
Kanesha Winston. Her three-dimensional art on canvas has me utterly fascinated. Oil paintings with book pages or paper-mache or origami added, then painted to blend in. I have never seen anything like it. The art is literally in my face, screaming to be seen. Begging me to reach out and run my fingers over it. Shifting left and right, I look at each piece from a different angle, a different perspective. See it come to life in its own way.
Akira Yamamoto and Leonard Denver are the two sculptors on display. The clay artist has softer appeal. A profile bust of a man in mourning. An ancient warrior mask. A mosaic of a woman in a garden. Each beautiful and mesmerizing in their own right. The metal pieces have harsher lines and are made of scraps. A hummingbird on a flower. A bionic cat. And my favorite—the softest of the metal pieces—is the embracing couple. Two human forms from the waist up, holding each other. One of them shiny and without imperfections. The other a mix of chain mail and luster with minor cracks.
Devlyn and I stare at this piece the longest. As if it represents us. Soft and rough. Smooth and harsh. Solid and broken. When I peek at him from the corner of my eye, I want to ask what he is thinking and feeling as he stares at the piece. If he sees the uncanny resemblance of us in the art. The strength and instability.
For now, I keep the thought to myself.
The last two artists before we reach Devlyn’s work are Justine Thomas and Harrison Beaufort. Their charcoal pieces are remarkable. The art world is still so new to me, but it blows my mind how people create such beauty with paper and charcoal.
