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“You didn’t wake me, Cas. It’s ok.”
A heavy sigh escaped my lips, my shoulders sagging. “I’m just… I’m just a little spooked right now. I heard a noise outside. It’s stupid; it’s probably just an animal getting into the trash or something—”
“Not stupid, Cas. It’s ok, really. If you don’t want to be alone, I can head over there right now. It’s no trouble, honest.”
“Actually… I’d—” It was difficult to get the words out. “I’d like that.”
“Send me your address, I’ll head your way,” he said.
“Ok. Text me when you get here, my parents are asleep next door. And Damien...”
“Yeah?”
A smile tugged at my lips. “Thank you.”
“Like I said, Cas. Anytime.” The call ended and I sat there in disbelief for a moment before I snapped out of it and sent him my address.
Damien was coming to my house. The reality of it made it difficult to breathe. This was fine, this was ok. He was just coming to be a good friend. That’s all it was, nothing more.
For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. My gaze lifted to the portrait of Kat I’d been working on. I grabbed my charcoal, continuing to work on the strands of her hair. It likely wouldn’t be finished for a while, but the countless hours I’d spent on it had been worth it. I sat back, looking over the progress again as I set my charcoal down, hopefully for the last time tonight.
The wood floor creaked as I stood, and a strange sense of excitement replaced the anxiety from before. My gaze drifted over the mess around me. Papers lay strewn in various places. Sketches and practice works, crumbled failed attempts, and bits of charcoal littered the hard wood floors. I needed to clean. Badly.
While the rest of my house was neat and organized, my art corner had always been a bit chaotic. I kneeled, gathering papers, stacking them loosely up on my messy desk, doing my best to organize the mess of graphite and chunks of used and new charcoal.
Unused and unopened acrylic and watercolor paint sets sat in the far corner of my desk. I didn’t know why I bothered holding onto them. Perhaps it was the fact that my parents had gotten them for me, in the hopes that I might add color to my work again. No matter how hard I tried, though, I never could. There was no color in my life—it was easier to look at things through a black and white lens. It made it easier to cope.
The paints had sat untouched since I’d received them. I should just throw them away already, but instead, I pulled the desk drawer open, pushed the paints into it, and shut them away, likely forever.
My phone vibrated in the pocket of my leggings, and I pulled it out, seeing a text from Damien.
‘I’m outside, which door is yours?’
My heart leapt into my throat as I read his text. That was faster than I’d expected; I’d expected at least an hour. We didn’t live far from downtown; maybe he’d been out with his friends.
I stopped what I was doing, leaving the partially cleaned mess behind, and headed for the door. I pushed myself up to my toes to look through the peephole. He was leaning against the railing of my porch, back turned as he looked out over the street. I unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door.
The moment he heard the door click, he turned to me. Smoke slipped from his lips as he snickered and swiped what looked like a thin cigar on the heel of his shoe, putting it out. He lowered his hood.
God, he was beautiful, but his laugh clicked through me and I cocked an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“What’s all over your face?”
My brows knitted, hand raising to my cheek. Oh my god what was wrong with my face? “What do you mean, ‘what’s all over my face’?”
Before I could move to check, he pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped a picture of me. I flinched at the flash, blinking as he turned his phone to show me.
Heat spread across my cheeks and over my ears as I looked at the picture on his screen.Oh God.
Black smudges of charcoal were smeared across my chin and the bridge of my nose, right where I always placed my hands when I was deep in thought. My eyes fell to my hands, my fingertips and palms still black from the charcoal I’d been using. I’d been so focused on cleaning my art space, and I hadn’t thought to clean—well…me!
I reached my hand out, my whispers a frantic mess. “Oh, my God! Delete that!”
Before I could grab his phone, he jerked it above his head and out of my reach, slipping through the doorway past me. “Nah, I think I’m going to keep it. It’s too cute to delete.”
A slurry of unrecognizable words spilled out of my mouth, and I shut the door as I followed him back inside. I couldn’t believe I didn’t think to change.
He paused in the entryway, eyes surveying my humble apartment. I walked over to him, wishing I’d had more time to clean. I could only imagine what he thought of me. “Sorry about the mess.”
