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I waved my hand dismissively. “It was nothing. I figured you’d need a hand after...everything.”
We exchanged a knowing look. Neither of us wanted to rehash those harrowing moments at the lighthouse.
Dylan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, well, the food hit the spot. I was so exhausted I just passed out on the couch. Woke up at dawn and ate the cold eggs and toast you left out. Hope that’s not too gross for you,” he added with a playful grin.
I made a face, crinkling my nose. “Ugh, cold eggs? You heathen!”
He laughed, the sound warming my heart. It was good to see him like this - bright, buoyant, blessedly whole.
“What can I say? Your cooking was so amazing I couldn’t wait,” Dylan replied. His smile softened. “But really...thank you. I appreciated it more than you know.”
“Anytime,” I said gently.
We held each other’s gaze for a moment. So much unspoken emotion seemed to pass between us. Gratitude, affection, a newfound tenderness. No more words were needed.
Finally, I broke the silence. “Well, I’d better return to prepping for the art festival.” I gestured to the half-organized canvasses around me.
I couldn’t help but smile as Dylan rolled up his sleeves, eyeing my paintings with mock seriousness. “Alright, put me to work! What’s first on the agenda?”
I handed him a stack of bubble wrap. “Let’s start by wrapping up some of these smaller paintings. Just make sure to wrap them gently.”
Dylan cracked his knuckles dramatically. “You got it, boss!”
He clumsily fumbled his way through the bubble-wrapping process, accidentally popping countless bubbles and sending loud crackles echoing through the studio. His large hands gottangled up in the thin plastic more than once, eliciting frustrated grunts.
“Ugh, this stuff is impossible!” he huffed, trying in vain to free himself again.
I stifled a laugh. “Here, you have to be gentle with it.” I took his hands in mine, carefully guiding them free. A tingle went through me at our contact. Dylan gave me a sheepish grin.
“Maybe I should leave this bubble wrap stuff to the expert.”
I just smiled and handed him a stack of paintings. “Why don’t you work on wrapping the large canvases instead?”
Dylan proved slightly better at this task, though he still managed to wrap a seascape backwards and tie the ribbon in a lopsided bow. We fell into an easy rhythm, the studio filled with light banter and laughter.
As we worked, I caught Dylan staring at me pensively. “What’s up?” I asked.
“Nothing, just...” He hesitated. “Seeing what goes into all this - the prep work, getting your art ready for the world - it’s cool. Makes me appreciate everything you do even more.”
I felt myself blush, touched by his words. “Well, I definitely couldn’t do it without help from friends like you.”
I glanced over at Dylan, who was carefully wrapping one of my larger seascapes. His brow furrowed in concentration as he aligned the edges just so.
“You know, I appreciate you helping me out with all this prep work,” I said. “I know it’s not the most exciting activity.”
Dylan looked up, flashing me a crooked grin. “Are you kidding? This is way more fun than my usual plans for a day off work. Beats cleaning the grout in my bathroom any day.”
I laughed. “Well, I’m glad bubble-wrapping paintings rank above scrubbing grout on your priority list.”
“Absolutely! I’ll take this over cleaning any day,” Dylan said enthusiastically. A little too enthusiastically, it turned out. Ashe gestured animatedly, his elbow bumped into a small table holding an open can of gesso, the special paint I used to prepare fresh canvas. The white liquid sloshed out, spilling all over the drop cloth on the floor.
“Oh, shoot!” Dylan yelped, quickly righting the can before more white liquid could spill out. But it was too late. There were already globs of gesso splattered across the drop cloth like an accidental Jackson Pollock painting.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at his crestfallen expression. He looked like a puppy who knew he had just chewed up his owner’s favorite pair of shoes.
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” I reassured him, lightly touching his arm. “Gesso washes out easily. Believe me, this is far from the worst art mishap I’ve had to deal with.”
I grabbed a rag and began gently dabbing at the white splotches on the floor. “When I was first starting, I sat on a tray of oil paints I had carefully squeezed onto my palette. Ended up with a wonderful rainbow butt!”
