Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Are you sure? You’re not yourself, and you haven’t been since you went to the bathroom. Did you run into someone? Did someone say something to you?” he presses.
I wait until we’re outside, away from the crowded dining hall, before I link our pinkies. “You know those posters in your bedroom? The ones you’ve been collecting?”
He rolls his shoulders back, and before I can spill my secret, he reveals it for me. “They’re yours. You drew them, didn’t you?”
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth and nod, hoping he’s not upset that I kept this from him.
“I knew it!” he exclaims, then lowers his voice. “They felt familiar. This is so fucking cool. You have such a following, Fee. People love your art. They wait all month for your next piece. I wait all month for it.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I whisper. “But you’re the only person who knows. Not even Tally or Cammie or Enid knows.”
“Don’t be sorry. I get why you wanted to keep that for yourself.” He cups my cheek in his palm and his eyes darken. “Did someone say something shitty? Is that why you’re not yourself? Fuck the haters, Fee, they’re just jealous.”
“It’s not that. There’s a copycat trying to take credit for my work. I just…I didn’t want people to know it was me, and then have these expectations, you know? I liked the anonymity, but I don’t love that someone else is trying to claim it as theirs now.”
“I understand how nerve-wracking it can be to open yourself up for criticism, but you have all these people who will champion you. Your art is inspiring. It’s a real gift, and I feel lucky to be one of the people you share it with, but other people should be able to fall in love with it, too.”
“Creating is so intensely personal for me, and it’s my deepest connection to my mom.” I share another fragile piece of myself. “She signed me up for my first art lesson when I was four. I remember it, so clearly.” I close my eyes for a moment. It had been a painting class. I’d been so excited about being able to get messy and not worry about accidentally getting paint on the table or the floor. “I can still smell the paint and her perfume, feel the warmth of her hand holding mine when she taught me how to paint a circle and turn it into the sun.” I laugh a little. My mom was thrilled to have a daughter who liked something other than hockey, and I see now that she dove into it with me because it was something she could be good at, too. She always wanted to show the world that she was the perfect mom, with the perfect life, and the talented, artsy daughter.
“It was a terrible painting, but it lived on the wall in our living room my whole life. I’ve always felt this deep connection to my mom every time I pick up a paintbrush.” I felt special when she took me to art galleries or signed me up for classes. It was time for just her and me. The instructors always praised her for having such a creative daughter. “But now that she’s gone—” I clear my throat. “I feel her with me when I’m in front of a canvas, designing or creating. I know she wasn’t perfect, but I loved that time with her. It makes not being able to hug her again hurt less.” But also more, because I see her more clearly now, and sometimes I wish I still had those rose-tinted glasses.
“Ophelia.” He pulls me into his arms, holding me tightly for a long minute before he leans back and cups my face in his hands. “You are remarkable, and your mom knew that. I’m sorry you can’t share this with her, but I’m so glad you have this connection to her through your art.” He strokes my cheek gently. “I’m here for you, okay? I can’t replace what you’ve lost, and you already have all these great people supporting you, but I want to be one of the people you rely on. I know Cammie is your bestie, but I can be your backup and your boyfriend.”
“Why are you so perfect?” I whisper, tears spilling over.
“I’m not even close, but whatever you need, I want to be that for you,” he whispers earnestly.
Something shifts between us. I memorize the moment: snowflakes settling on his auburn lashes before they melt away, the sharp winter wind against my wet cheeks, the heat of his palm on my skin.
I cover his hand with mine. “Mac.”
“I’m right here.”
“I think…” I try to place the warmth spreading through me, to identify this feeling that fills me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. It coats the raw spaces in my heart like a balm. Oh. “I think I’m falling for you,” I whisper.