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Nic glances up. “Sure, but…”
“But?” I prompt.
“Nothing mean. No snapping turtles biting my dick off.”
I gasp. “I would never.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, I would. But I won’t. Promise.”
Nic puts his brush down and walks around the easel. He pulls a beautifully wrapped gift out of the basket and hands it to me before sitting across from me, his knees touching mine.
I know what this is, the familiar weight and shape in my hands. Goose bumps break out over my skin, and my stomach twists painfully.
“It’s not Christmas yet,” I say stiffly.
“Open it early.”
I could refuse. Tell him I don’t want the paints, I’ll never use them, but…
“Come on, Jessie,” he says in a soft voice, his hands moving up my knees to my thighs and back down. “It’s just the two of us. You can leave it all up here if you want. No one needs to know.”
He’s right. I don’t have to do anything with whatever I paint. There’s no pressure to get it right for Gretchen, no stress from submitting something to a gallery. This can be for me, if I choose to pick up a brush again.
I rip the paper like it’s a Band-Aid and doing it faster will hurt less.
Oddly, it doesn’t hurt at all.
The little palettes are expensive, the colors rich. Nic pulls other gifts from the laundry basket, and I rip open high-quality brushes, more paints, and a set of small canvases.
“Thank you,” I say, leaning forward to kiss him. “I need to sketch a bit before I can start painting.”
He nods. “I want you to paint something for me.”
“Okay.”
“Yourself.”
“Why?”
He motions to the stacks of canvases. “All these paintings, and not one is a self-portrait. It’s like you’re not a participant in your own life.”
That’s incredibly rude and completely inaccurate, but so close to how I felt as a kid. I was lonely. I never felt like I belonged even in the place where I should belong, and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised Nic picked up on it. Despite having the full attention and love of my family, he still seemed lonely too. It was one of the things that drew me to him, despite what felt like his indifference.
“You have to promise to put it in your closet with the painting of Not You.”
“It’s going on my bedroom wall.” He gets back to his feet. “Go ahead and sketch me while I finish this painting.”
I don’t sketch him, exactly. At least, not in a way anyone would be able to identify him. Instead, I do a quick series of little studies. His hand gripping his thigh as his body reclines naked in a chair, mostly off-page and deeply shadowed because I’ve drawn enough dicks to last a lifetime. Another sketch of his jawline, his parted lips just visible. Another of his legs, bare, kneeling on the floor.
Little pieces of eroticism, pulled from memory and fantasy. I could paint them. Maybe I will. But not today.
“I think I’m done.” Nic announces with a disappointed sigh.
I get up to take a look, and sure enough, it’s a lake. Or something blue that might be a lake, with something green that might be the shore. Birds the size of pterodactyls fly the skies, and there’s a sailboat cruising across the horizon. A couple of grayish blobs for clouds. It’s not bad for his first time painting.
“You did well,” I tell him, going up on my tiptoes to kiss him.
