Liam’s eyes flicked to mine, holding my gaze briefly before he went back to inspecting my hand.
“When I was younger, I had to go to the doctor every six months to make sure it was growing, to do occupational therapy, to make sure everything was okay.” I breathed a laugh through my nose. “As if it was ever okay.”
Liam’s thumb drew a line across my palm, pinky to thumb, his mouth pulling to the side. After what felt like an eternity, he lifted his gaze to mine. “You don’t need to hide it the way you do.”
I snorted. “Are you kidding?” I pulled my hand from him and held my knees close again. “You don’t have to look at people’s faces when they see it.”
“Screw them,” he said, as if it were easy, as if it was the simplest notion to just ignore the way people stared at you.
I pulled my hand from where I’d tucked it away and rotated it in-between us, flexing my thumb and pinky as we both watched. “My entire life, I’ve been the girl with the deformed hand. No matter what I do despite it, that’s my identity. I’m not the girl with the big smile or the girl with the mole above her lip or the girl who wears the cool clothes or the girl who likes to paint. I’m just…” I sighed. “The girl with the hand.”
Liam watched me curiously when I looked beyond my hand to where he sat, his eyes flicking between mine. “I think we should go in there.”
I frowned, not understanding until he looked back at the door I’d just fled from.
I shook my head violently. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
Panic seeped into my bones again, but Liam lowered his gaze until it was level with mine, holding my attention in a calm gaze.
“I’ll be there with you,” he promised. “And if it’s too much at any time, just say the word and we’re gone. But I think you should try it. I think…” He paused for a moment, his eyes falling to my hand again. “I think if you want people to start seeing the real you, you’ve got to see her first. You have to accept and love your hand so that others can, too. And you have to see who you are despite it.” He shrugged. “Maybe you need a fresh look. To see it through someone else’s eyes.”
It sounded so sweet, so romantic, at the very base of what he was asking. But he couldn’t understand how weak even the thought of showing someone my hand made me feel, let alone making it the center of attention in a room full of artists.
“You don’t understand,” I whispered. “This is the most terrifying thing you could ever ask of me.”
“Tell you what. You do this, and afterward, I’ll do something that terrifies me, too.”
“I can’t think of anything that would scare you.”
His eyes met mine. “You’ll never find out, if you don’t jump first.”
“Why do I have to jump first?” I pouted.
Liam smirked. “Because it’s yes night, and it was all your idea to begin with.”
“Stupidest idea ever.” I sighed, looking at the chalkboard sign before I looked back at Liam. “If I say the word, we’re gone?”
“Without question.”
I nodded, chest tightening like an iron fist around my already-shallow lungs. But in the back of my mind, I heard Professor Beneventi urging me out of my comfort zone, and I heard dozens of voices whispering about my small hand, and I heard my innermost desire screaming for me to break free of the chains I’d somehow tangled myself in my entire life.
Maybe this was a chance to face this part of me I’d chosen to hide for far too long.
Maybe if I could face it, I could step out from under its shadow.
Maybe I would pass out in a room full of strangers.
There was only one way to find out.
After the most calming breath I could muster, I turned back to Liam and nodded.
He smiled. “Atta girl.”
He was on his feet in the next instant, his hand reaching down for mine. But when I reached up my left hand to take his, he shook his head, waving his fingers at the one braced on the ground.
My small hand.
He waited until I connected the dots, and when I extended my right hand in the air, he grabbed it gently and helped me stand. The smile he gave me was a confident one, one that told me he had me, that I could trust him, that there was nothing to worry about.
He kept my hand in his until we were once again knocking on that large, wooden door.
And I prayed he was right.
The Art of Vulnerability
What I assumed used to be a living room in this old house had been transformed into a studio, the walls lined with sketchbooks and anxious artists, while a model took up the space in the middle. It was warm, every neck beaded with sweat, but the windows were open, and a small fan ran in the corner of the room, providing a light breeze.