Portrait of Us (16 page)

I
swallowed and turned my
attention back to his question. “Um, I'm petrified of failure,” I finally whispered. It was still a core fear, but safer than going down the other road . . . the one that involved him. “Not just losing competitions or being second place. It's something deeper, more painful than that. Failing at fulfilling my dreams. At not being good enough.”

He paused his drawing and fixed those intense eyes on me. His nod was small but I could see his empathy. “I push myself hard on the basketball team. The more wins I get, the stronger I look. The stronger I look, the more likely important people will notice me. It might be the only way I can go to college someday—I need a scholarship.”

Just like he needed the money from our competition. My
heart squeezed a bit. How hard it had to be to worry about money so much. I felt a flare of shame at how dismissive I was on the topic, how unappreciative I'd been of my easy life. I never had to worry about things being paid for. They simply were.

Judging by his posture, it didn't seem comfortable for him to drop his guard and tell me this vulnerability. But the fact that he did made me feel closer to him. The space between us narrowed, filled with unspoken words.

We sat in silence for a few more minutes. I could hear the soft huffs of his breath as he worked on my image, the sound of pencil on paper. The tick of the clock on the wall. What would it look like? How did he see me? I kept thinking about that picture he took of me in the park.

“Okay, I think I'm almost done,” he said. After another minute or so, he put the pencil down and stopped. His eyes turned to me, and a nervous grin crawled across his face. “Now it's your turn.”

I stood from the seat and stretched with a grimace as my back popped in a few spots. Wow, how did models do this for long sessions? Everything in my body was cramped and tight. “Get ready for the fun,” I muttered. But my heart was racing in anticipation of seeing his drawing.

As I headed for him, he quickly covered his image. “Not ready yet,” he said when I approached.

“Wait, what? I can't even take a peek? But we're working on it together.” I looked up at him and saw a small smudge of pencil on
his chin. Before I realized what I was doing, I reached my thumb up and swept it across the spot to clear it.

I froze, hand on skin. His eyes flared, and the breath hitched in his throat as his Adam's apple bobbed.

“Um.” I swallowed, dropped my hand. “You had . . . there was a mark . . .” My face burned like it was a hundred degrees in the building.

Matthew moved in silence to the seat. I took my place behind the easel and prepared my station to draw.

There was a definite spark there between us, something that crackled like live electricity every time we got near. And when we touched, my skin felt like it was on fire. Scary and intoxicating—I was drawn to it and wanted to run at the same time.

Because I knew it meant big trouble.

I closed my eyes, drew in a slow breath.
Focus.
I needed to keep my attention on our work, where it belonged.

Matthew sat serenely staring over my shoulder, eyes fixed on the wall behind me. Good. It gave me space to pull myself together. I grabbed a pencil and began to rough out his outline. The way his hair tufted, the shell of his ears. The strong, firm angle of his jaw and the swoop of his lean throat.

My skin flushed as I took in all the details about him I hadn't let myself focus too much on before. How his nose had that tiny bump along the bridge. The series of freckles right at the V of his throat.

My fingers itched to stroke those spots and see if they were as warm as the rest of him was.

The pencil shook in my hand and I gripped it tighter. “Um.” I cleared my throat again—it was starting to become a bad habit around him—and said, “Well, if you won't show me your picture, you have to wait for mine, too.”

The corner of his lip curled up. “This is going to be interesting.”

Slowly, as I worked, I slipped into the zone. I drew the way his hair flopped over his brow, captured the sparkle in his eyes from the light through the window. The dimple in his cheek. He was undeniably handsome, that was for sure. And while the girl in me was still nervous, the artist in me thrilled at the challenge of capturing him accurately.

Matthew stayed a lot more still than I had. He didn't squirm, just sat there in serene confidence.

As I started shading in certain spots, I found myself wanting to ask him more questions about himself. Had he ever had a girlfriend?

Or been in love?

“Do you like school?” I blurted out and instantly wished I could smack my forehead. Wow, could I sound any nerdier?

The dimple flared in his cheek. “School is okay. I don't hate it.” He shrugged. “My friends help me pass the time in boring classes.”

“What classes
do
you like?”

He blinked. “Um, history is cool. I'm looking forward to physics next year. I really like science.”

Never would have pegged him for a science guy. “I really like math, especially geometry.”

He gave a knowing nod. “I should have assumed as much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” he started slowly, “you're drawn to classical art. You like rules. There's a sort of math in the art of perspective, shading, and so on. Math may seem stuffy, but it has a lot of applicable functions in life. Even in art.”

I hadn't thought about it before, but he was right. The two did feed into each other. Maybe my interests weren't so polarized after all.

“Are you getting close to finishing?” he asked with a chuckle. “This chair isn't exactly the most comfortable, as you already know.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I could have sat here all day, staring at his face and drawing his likeness on paper. But that wasn't practical. Not to mention it would make me look super creepy. On impulse, I dug my phone out of my pocket and stepped a little closer to him. “But I'd like to take some shots of you. You know, so I can work on this more at home.”

Not a total lie—I did want to keep going with this, and having his image would help. But more than that, I wanted to be able to look at him when he wasn't around.

Wow, I was falling
so
deep. I could see myself careening toward the edge of that cliff already.
Danger!
my brain tried to yell at me, but I couldn't seem to back away from the edge.

He lifted his chin up just a fraction so I got a better shot of his face in the light. “Okay, have at it.”

I took several from different angles. The last one was straight on. His eyes roared to life, a sea of blue. My heart raced as I made myself close my phone and tuck it back into my pocket. “Um, I think I'm all done here.”

He grabbed his phone, rotated me until I was facing the clock wall, and snapped a couple of shots of me, too.

“Hey, you already had one of my face,” I said, knowing my cheeks were probably flaring red right now.

“But not in this particular location,” he pointed out. “Need to make sure our light sources match for our project.”

Duh. My heart sank a bit. Of course—he was thinking about shading and light for when we weren't in the studio.

I felt like a fool.

I put away my supplies in silence, and he did the same. We turned off the lights and exited the studio, locking the door behind us—Teni would be coming by soon to work on her own art.

I shifted my bag on my shoulder, my big art notebook clutched in my sweaty palm. “Okay, I'll see you on Monday,” I said. I turned to walk down the street.

He touched my arm, wrapped his fingers around my skin. I froze in place and turned to face him. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“With me?” I shrugged casually and gave a wide smile. “Oh, nothing.” Except that I was a total idiot who wouldn't stop reading
into everything Matthew did, hoping somehow it would help me see how he was feeling about me. Wondering if this fire in my belly was matched by one in his.

I was totally becoming
that
girl.

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes flaring with a bit of skepticism. But apparently he decided not to push. He released my arm. “Okay. I'll see you, then.”

I stiffened my spine, pride flooding me. I wasn't going to let him know how I was feeling, how vulnerable I'd been in there. The project. That was my focus, my drive.

And as I walked back to my house, I almost managed to convince myself of it.

“Grandpa, can you pass me the gravy?” Charlie thrust out his hand across the table.

Mom shot him a glare.

Charlie huffed out a “please.”

Grandpa handed him the bowl. “He's got your attitude,” he told my mom, laughter in his wizened eyes. “You were a feisty one as a kid.”

Sunday dinner was always like this—a little bit of teasing and a lot of food. Today was no different. Our table was heaped with fluffy biscuits and sausage gravy, thick slices of bacon, hot stacks of pancakes. Sometimes Mom liked to make breakfast for dinner, and I never protested because it was so good.

Dad buttered a biscuit. “Corinne, how's your art project
going? You've been holed up in your room a lot over the last couple of weeks.”

I poured syrup on my pancakes and took a bite before answering, letting the maple fill my mouth. “Not bad. We were working on something but decided to try another route, since it just wasn't flowing.”

This afternoon, I'd gone to a drugstore and had them print a copy of Matthew's picture out so I could use it for reference for my painting. It was in my room right now, taped on the wall by my easel. His eyes looked endless, like they saw right through me—the picture had taken my breath away when I saw it enlarged.

My cheeks burned at the thought. Even the drug store employee had commented on what a great shot it was.

“Why are you blushing?” Charlie asked in a loud voice.

I shot him a glare, willing my face to even out. The last thing I needed was for Mom and Dad to realize I had a crush on my art partner. They'd never let me live it down.

Dad furrowed his brow as he stared at me. I tilted my chin up and tried not to look intimidated. “You're still keeping up on your studies, aren't you?” he asked, a thin layer of disapproval in his voice.

Truthfully, I hadn't opened my math book in days. I'd been busy with art, letting it consume my world, my thoughts.

Art, and Matthew.

I cleared my throat. “Math stuff is still going fine.” It wasn't like math theories were suddenly going to change or anything.
But I knew better than to say that to my dad, who would see it as mouthing off.

Grandpa raised an eyebrow. “And how is it, working with that boy? Matthew, is that his name? Are you guys getting along okay?”

I nodded. “We figured out a project that melds both of our artistic styles. I think we have a real chance.” All I knew was that I had a lot of excitement at the thought of painting his face. I was ready to pour all of my passion into it. I needed this to be my best project ever.

Mom finished the last bite of biscuit on her plate. Then she said, “You guys have been spending an awful lot of time together lately.” There was a thread of discomfort in her tone.

My heart rate picked up. “We have to—we're getting close to the deadline.”

“When it's done, I expect to see you returning your focus back to your schoolwork,” Dad said. “Classes will be starting again soon, and you don't want to get behind.”

A swell of frustration filled me. Ava was off in Scotland, enjoying a wonderful family vacation with her parents. Meanwhile, mine were trying to keep my nose stuck in a book all summer, not outside enjoying the weather. Art. Life, really.

“I'm not going to get behind.” I knew my voice had a snippy tone but I couldn't help it. I was tired of being pushed so hard. I liked math—loved it. But couldn't I love it on my own terms? Did it have to be everything, all the time?

The table got quiet. Even my brother turned his attention to his plate, like he knew there was a fight brewing.

I stood and grabbed my half-eaten plate. “I'm going to go upstairs and work.” I didn't want to argue. I just wanted to get back into that happy glowing place I experienced every time I lost myself in art.

Mom gave me a short nod. I didn't even look at my father or anyone else as I headed to the kitchen, emptied my plate, and dumped it in the sink. Then I made my way into my bedroom, trying to fight the sting of tears.

I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes. No, I wasn't going to cry. Not over this. I just had to find a way to make them understand that art was just as important to me as schoolwork.

I needed the freedom to explore both. But if Dad had his way, that was not going to happen.

My gaze turned to Matthew's image. The soft glow of light on his skin. The flare in his eyes. I studied my rough drawing beside it. Then I picked up my pencil and let myself get lost in the picture.