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The rules for the game of hearts were simple: smile— nod even if they're wrong, know the correct angle to reveal your neck in a melodic laugh, and never engage in scandalous promiscuity lest the shame of the town would rest on your shoulders. A woman with a reputation never earned a choice.
Virginia Curtis knew the implications of that consequence even before she was thrust into that economic web for lackluster romance. Every time she would try and gaze into the dark eyes of Thomas Reed, she could only hear scrutinous bells of shame ringing in her ears. Of course, that was a long time ago in a wildly different town, her heart set on a long-lost soul. Loyalties were divided in broken bottles and hidden knives, as well as the hearts of the ones who loved the most.
Holding in her breath, Virginia dragged down the paintbrush carefully on her canvas.
The small back room was quiet, lit by that singular lightbulb suspended on the ceiling but unbearably stuffy, even in the cooler weather. Every window was propped open as well as the door to the small storage room she holed herself in. The cold touch of paint on Virginia's skin rejuvenated her senses, allowing her to be reborn in a multitude of colors and the most spectacular of revelations. She thrived off the scent of turpentine and oils swirling in the beautifully lit room where the best version of herself flourished.
An hour or two must've passed. Virginia wasn't keeping track of time. As far as she was concerned, the world would wait for her and be kind enough to grant her this morning to be alone.
She gently wiped down the bunch of brushes clutched in her hand. The rag sprouted a rainbow of colors all the while her eyes were trained on the canvas. Many of her peers claimed autumn was a step closer to the dreary emptiness of winter and that it lacked inspiration for a true masterpiece. Virginia saw beyond the brittle branches. She painted her heart, made frigid and steely by the brisk wind of the colder season and the gyre of worldly problems circling around her like a vulture. She sniffled, the chilly morning getting to her senses. Her eyes dropped with heaviness and for a second, she was fearful of catching a cold so early in the academic year.
The soft and steady movement of her brushes froze as a sudden flash of paper broke through a shaft of light streaming inside the room. It may have been a trick of her mind but she walked out to investigate the source of that paper airplane. She scowled at Dallas who was smoking on top of his car. When or how he acquired the Thunderbird was a question for the ages. It was beautiful, pitch black with a snowy top and hub caps that gleamed like silver.
"You can't just follow me around everywhere, Dally," she chided, sticking her head out the window. The sudden breeze made her shiver, the loose strands of her hair that escaped from her braid flying in her eyes.
"Easy. Just drive with me, ain't gotta follow you around," he joked as smoke vented from his nostrils.
