Barely There

Chapter 26 - Reliving Memories

She walked in darkness, only seeing a blurry beam of light in the corner of her vision. He gripped her arms steadily as he led her forward step-by-step.

"Almost there."

"I can hear waves."

"Don't pay attention to the sounds. It'll ruin the surprise."

They walked up the steps as she focused her attention on remaining upright and not tripping over invisible objects in her blinded path. His hands left her for a second and she forgot how to stand by herself. She rocked side to side to keep her balance. A creak of a door sounded in front of her. He grabbed her again.

Right.

Left.

Right.

The cold breeze left her skin as she entered through what she interpreted as a doorway. Her nose sniffed at the air, detecting the smoky firewood in the room. The crackling sounds and fiery warmth confirmed her theory of a fireplace across from her and she tried to walk towards it before being softly pushed back by Grayson.

"As if I'm going to let you walk towards a fire while blindfolded." She shivered as she felt him step away from her, the fire not sufficient enough to warm her body like he could. "You can take off the blindfold now."

She unwrapped the blindfold from around her head, settling her eyes on his face in the orange light of the fire. Prying her eyes off him forcefully she slowly took in her surroundings, observing the horizontal wooden panels which lined the walls, the dusty wood flooring, and the bareness of the room except for basic furniture. A shimmer of gold near the window caught her eye and her feet moved against her as she walked towards the easel, a canvas set on top of it. The canvas was completely blank with a set of acrylics and brushes leaned against it.

He spoke from behind her, answering her questions without her voice speaking them out loud.

"This is the cabin I rented for your 18th birthday. And that easel...is the same one from that night. The last person to use it was you."

She turned around, her eyes unreadable in the darkness of the night.

"Why di-"

"I'm sorry if this is weird, I should have asked but I thought..."

She smiled at his inability to read her mind, finding satisfaction in her unpredictability. "You didn't let me finish. Why did you do all this? Why go through all the trouble?"

He laughed dryly. His eyes dark and his shadow big within the small room. The fire crackled and spat as it laughed along with him.

"You still don't know?"

The smile had died out on her face but the fire burned nonetheless.

"I don't want to assume anything."

His smile weakened until only the smallest upturned curve sat in the corners of his mouth. On the other hand, his eyes kept their same slightly squinted shape on his sharpened face.

"Huh. I see. Well, for one, you're the mother to my daughter." The fire raged behind him, the air was becoming too hot. "But most importantly, I love you. I went through the trouble because I love you. Even after all these years."

She felt her breath hitch in her throat and felt the sudden urge to kiss him. She would later question why she felt the need to pull him in for a kiss then, but she did nonetheless and in spite of her strange regret and conflicted emotions, she liked the feeling of his lips against hers. She liked that for a second he became the only thing that existed. The feeling never went away after the kiss but her denial was enough to conceal it. Gathering herself, she sat down in front of the easel, trying to push his loud confession and her own silent one out of her head. She looked straight ahead at the blankness, trying not to look at him.

"Teach me."

The confusion from her boldness carried into his tone as he attempted to decipher her command.

"What?" he questioned, his voice laced with amusement.

"Teach me how to paint."

She looked at him then and tore away his mask of confusion before she saw the tiny glimmer of hope that no one but her would notice.

"I'm gonna warn you now. I'm not the best artist."

"You're an architect...they draw I think."

He chucked loudly as he picked up the acrylic set and began to open it.

"I'm an architect, not an artist. It takes something special to be an artist, and I don't have it."

She smiled at him, keeping her eyes trained on his movement and her heartbeat steady. She felt confused at herself and her confidence and everything that she was doing internally and physically in the moment but she let it slip away. She let it go to the same place she had been storing the memories of her repeated failure with Clementine.

"You're an artist."

His eyes gazed down at her from his height and he let a smile loll on his lips, choosing not to respond to her statement. Instead, he set down the acrylics on the ledge of the window and picked up a medium, soft-bristle brush from in front of her. He dipped the brush in a sapphire paint and set the wooden part of the brush in her hand, nudging her wrist towards the center of the canvas.

"Paint."

She looked between him and the canvas, dropping her head down to look at the brush when she grew tired. "You're not a very great teacher."

His voice took on a serious note, not rewarding her teasing or banter. "Because you don't need me to be your teacher, you don't need one at all."

"I-"

"Shut up and paint."

Taken back by his demeanor she set the brush on the canvas, moving it in a crooked line to the right in a measly effort to draw a wave. Cringing she continued her mistake, twisting her brush in amateur twirls on the white surface. She ended her lines with a flick, feeling buried emotions rise from the rubble of hidden feelings. Something mixed with pain, desperation, guilt, and regret rolled into one as she looked at his face in the sudden darkness of the cabin. The fire had gone out and she hadn't noticed herself attempting to paint under nothing but moonlight. She either misread his expression or he noticed her change in emotion because he reassured her of her efforts.

"You're doing great. Keep going."

After regaining a drop of confidence, she dipped a thinner brush in a lighter blue color, a shade lighter than his eyes, and followed the lines she had painted before, adding highlights on her ocean waves. Looking at the crookedness of the lines, the questioning proportions, and her pathetic attempt of blending the colors, she felt the tears rise in the corner of her eyes. She felt the fall of the first tear drop as it traveled down onto the brush in her hand and carried with it a hint of diamond blue paint. He intervened in her emotional car crash and took her hand, carrying it along the canvas and letting the line draw itself. He dipped her other brush in more paint, white this time, before shoving it into her hand and painting the moon for her.

There was something she found tragically beautiful about that moment: the silent tears which dripped onto the painting, his shaky hands as he pushed her wrist towards the edge of the canvas, and the ghost of adventures and passion which stood between them. It was raw and vulnerable and ugly but she craved it.