I glance around the living room. It’s not a total wreck, but I’ve got my drawings from the past couple weeks spread out on every surface, and there’s nowhere to sit.
I clear off the couch for him and shrug. “Sorry. I’m not exactly set up for company.”
He grins. “I don’t care. You know I’m not picky about shit like that.”
“Good.” I can’t help but grin back. “Do you mind if I keep working for a little bit? You’re welcome to hang out, but I want to finish this piece I started.”
“Yeah, of course.” He perks up, actually looking excited about the idea of watching me paint.
Ignoring the little flutter of nerves that moves through my stomach at that thought, I head back to my painting as Declan settles on the couch. I glance over it again, feeling a little dazed after so quickly being pulled out of the zone I was in. When I pick up my brush, the familiar weight in my palm is enough to get me back into the groove.
“Oh, hey. How is your single doing?” I ask, dipping my brush in paint.
“Fucking amazing,” he says enthusiastically. “And all because of you.”
My brush falters a little bit, and I flush, warmed by the compliment even though it’s not true. “You did all the work. Not me.”
“I wouldn’t have put it out there if it wasn’t for you,” he insists. “I feel fucking amazing. Like I finally know who I am.”
The heat of his body brushes against my back as he comes up behind me, his hand coaxing my hair over one shoulder before he wraps his arms around me. I lean into his touch and try to keep focus on my painting, but the sparks traveling up and down my arms make that a little difficult.
“I know you don’t believe me when I say it was because of you, Soph,” he says quietly, his lips brushing the exposed skin between my neck and my shoulder. “But it was. You showed me I could be more than what I was settling for. That I could have more. Could dream bigger.”
It’s strange to hear a guy who was born into a world of wealth and privilege say those words to someone like me, but I think I sort of understand what he means.
We’re both trying to find our way off of paths the world has set for us, trying to build a life that fits what we want.
I smile to myself, even though he can’t see it. We lapse into silence as he pulls up a chair and sits close to me, his shoulder brushing against mine a little as he watches me paint, interjecting with questions sometimes.
“It’s beautiful,” he says quietly, watching in awe as I swipe another color across layers and layers of carefully built up paint.
“Thank you,” I stutter out, not quite sure how to take the compliment.
When I glance at him, I catch his raised eyebrow. “Do you not believe me?” he asks, frowning slightly.
“No, I do.” I look back at the painting. I guess it’s good, although I know I see it through my own insecurities as an artist. “I mean, I think it’s beautiful. It’s just strange to hear someone say it out loud.”
“A lot of people would say that,” he says confidently. “You should do a show or something, a gallery. Let people see inside your beautiful head.”
I keep my eyes focused on the painting, wrinkling my nose. “I’m not sure I could do that. It’d be too fucking weird. These paintings are like parts of me. How could I share these with strangers? Like you with your music… it wasn’t easy, was it?”
His nose brushes up against my shoulder. “It wasn’t,” he says. “It’s fucking terrifying. And even now that I’ve done it, I can’t say it was easy, but it was worth it.”
I glance at him, catching the depths of honesty in his brown eyes. “I’m still not sure I could,” I say quietly. “I’ve never painted for anyone but myself.”
“You’re painting with me, right now,” he says, and turning my chin with a brush of his fingers, his lips find mine in a gentle kiss. “How is that any different?”
My heart races in my throat and I turn away from him, looking back at the art as if I have to remind myself why I don’t share them.
“These paintings… they hold everything,” I say. The shit. The messy stuff. All of my fucked up past, my lost memories—there’s nothing good in these paintings. It’s just a physical representation of my broken insides, and I’m not sure anyone would want to see them. “They hide nothing. It wouldn’t be just putting my paintings on display. It would be putting myself on display.”
His fingers find the ends of my hair, brushing through the blue and blonde strands.
“These paintings, Soph? They’re all fucking stunning,” he says, his voice dropping. “And if these paintings are part of you, then they’re not just stunning because of what they are, but because of who they were made by.”
My heart stutters. There’s not even a hint of insincerity in his voice. He really means it.
I don’t know how it happened. How these men saw past the facade I show the rest of the world, how they found their way so deep inside my heart that they know me better than anyone else.