Of course I’ve seen it, but my smile isn’t because I know what he’s talking about. For some reason, thinking about Gray watching Titanic makes a laugh bubble up in my chest. I doubt it’s the kind of movie he’d choose on his own, and I wonder if Beth made him watch it.
I bet she did.
I bet there are so many things they shared over all the years she was alive. They were twins. They grew up together. And I think Beth is the reason Gray has a softer side, even if he doesn’t show it often.
“What?” Gray’s brows pull together as he takes in my expression.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, dispelling the thoughts.
“You have a funny look on your face, Sparrow.” He narrows his eyes before leaning down and kissing me again. “I don’t like it.”
“I promise it’s nothing,” I say when our lips break apart. “Your comment was just funny… and sweet.”
His thumb brushes against my lip, that breathtaking warmth filling his eyes again. “You remind me of her. Or that scene, I guess.”
“Kate Winslet?” I cock an eyebrow, breaking the moment with my snort. “I don’t look anything like her.”
“No, it’s just… you know.” He goes up on one elbow, hovering over me as his fingers brush against the little heart where it rests on my skin.
It doesn’t look anything like the massive necklace from the movie, but that’s not what he’s talking about. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say. Then, lowering my voice, I add, “Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.”
“Yeah, you ruined it.” Gray rolls off of me but stays close by, his body still pressed into mine as if he doesn’t want to leave.
I don’t want to leave. There’s something about the little bubble we’ve created here on the kitchen floor that feels perfect. It feels like we’re a million miles away from universities with rich bitches and rapey assholes, far away from foster families and memory loss, far away from everything but us.
“Do you think you could paint like that?” he asks suddenly.
“Portraits?” I glance at him.
“Yeah, portraits. People. Realistic.”
He’s seen enough of my art to know that’s not my usual style, and I’m curious why he’s asking. I shrug, feeling his body shift against mine with the movement. “I think I could. Actually, I know I could. I’ve done a few portraits. I sketched one of Jared after he died. But I never really connected with stuff like that as much.” I hesitate, thinking. “I like to… paint my feelings out. And sometimes literal representations of things, lifelike paintings—they don’t capture the true emotion as well as something more abstract does.”
We fall into another moment of silence.
I’m not sure what Gray is thinking about as he traces patterns on my skin, but my thoughts turn to my art again. I was telling the truth. I know I could paint stuff like that. Realistic things, as he puts it. I did a pretty good picture of Jared, not to mention other sketches I have tucked away in random notebooks or on loose leaves of paper, but recently, I haven’t done a lot of that. Right now, it’s more abstract colors and shapes that call to me—the physical representation of my thoughts and feelings brought to life.
“Maybe if my memories were clear, my paintings would be more clear too,” I murmur.
I know that probably doesn’t make sense to Gray, but that’s how it feels. I’m painting things that my brain hardly understands on a logical level, so how could I possibly paint them as anything but vague shapes and shadows imbued with emotion?
“You don’t have to go back to school when spring semester starts.” Gray’s voice startles me out of my thoughts, jumping topics again. “You know… you’re still recovering from your injury. And after all the bullshit at Hawthorne, maybe it’s better for you to go somewhere else.”
I crane my neck a little to look over at him, surprised. I know he’s saying it out of a caring place in his heart, if that’s even a thing, but for some reason, his words make me tense. I don’t like the idea of running, any more than I like the idea of being trapped. Neither one sits well with me, which is why I ended up beating the shit out of Cliff when he attacked me in that alley.
My fight-or-flight instinct is obviously heavily weighted toward fight.
“No. I want to go back.” I shake my head firmly. “I wasn’t even sure I wanted to come here in the first place, and you’re right—there’s been a lot of bullshit that’s come with being at Hawthorne.” I don’t mention that Gray was the instigator of some of that bullshit. It’s over now. He’s on my side, just like the other two Sinners are. “But I don’t want to run. I want to finish what I started, you know?”
He doesn’t say anything for a while, just nuzzles his face against my shoulder, breathing me in. My mind starts to drift to other subjects, like whether I could sneak out and get a gift for Gray since I didn’t get him anything for Christmas, but then he continues.
“I could help you find a better place,” he says sincerely. Almost encouragingly. “A place where you could study art, where you could focus on that. A place where you could fit in better. Not,” he adds quickly, “that you’re not good enough for Hawthorne. But are we really good enough for you? Wouldn’t you like being around other people who are more your type? Not bitchy social climbers like Caitlin, but people who think like you. Wouldn’t that be more worth it?”
The way he says it, the conviction in his voice—it makes me hesitate for just a second. It sounds like he’s thought this out before now. It’s not an idea that just came to him as we’ve been lying here on the kitchen floor, and the hint of worry in his voice makes me realize how much he cares. This is important to him.
I open my mouth to respond, then pause. A prickly feeling is crawling up my spine, and I don’t really know what to say.
“It wouldn’t be a failure on your part, Sparrow,” Gray adds, his voice low and intense. “Leaving the school would just mean leaving for a place that was better for you. Not failing yourself or any of us.”