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He swears—but then it doesn’t matter, because I’m out on the sidewalk and catching Melody’s attention from across the street.
And she smiles.
46
MELODY
Easel. Paint. Canvas. Subject.
I don’t know why I’mscared.
Jacob went all out, sometime between me finding out about the paintings and arriving back to Denver. When we walked into his condo this afternoon, there it all was. The supplies were spread across his kitchen island, displayed in a way that made me think he was proud of his ingenuity.
Now he’s in the gym, supposedly he’s going to be cooking us dinner later, and my only job is to try and put paint on the canvas.
I adjust my smock and pick up one of the charcoal pencils. I touch the sharpened tip to it first, dragging it in a half circle.
The red apple is taunting me.
Because it’s not really just red, is it? It’s red and yellow and orange, with speckled flecks and parts that smoothly blend from one shade to the next. There are shadows and highlights, and a bit of reflection from the light behind me.
The fear still grips me, and I have to ask myselfwhy. Why am I so afraid of this?
It’s not like I can get it wrong. It’s art. There’s no right or wrong—
But there is good. Better.Worse.
What if I paint an apple, and I compare it to the bird hanging in Jacob’s bedroom, and it’sworse? If it’s sloppy? Or off-putting? Or if I get some crucial detail completely wrong?
“Just start,” I say. Because if I don’t say it, I won’t do it.
I take down the canvas and put it on my lap, and I suck my lower lip between my teeth as I draw the apple. Over and over again, the lines getting slightly more refined. Shaping it until I’m satisfied.
Then I set the canvas back up and stare at the dark blob on the white canvas.
Now what?
I grab my phone and put on music, then dip one of the fine-edged brushes into the red paint.
“It’s okay if it looks like a twelve-year-old did it.”
I jerk around.
Jacob stands behind me, his gaze soft. He’s beensofterthis afternoon. Something eased in him as soon as we touched back down in Denver. And now he’s a sweaty, shirtless mess.
I set the palette and brush aside, swiveling to face him fully. I spot the bird tattoo on his ribcage.
“You got that for me.”
Songbird. The bird I painted. It makes sense.
He smiles. “Guilty.”
Reality crashes back down around me. “Don’t smile at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you like me.”
