Our Blank Canvas

Chapter Three

Félix

I've managed to push out all thoughts of that day two weeks ago when she came back in town. She's not even special anymore, she's just a she now. Not a she. I'm proud of myself for getting rid of the emphasis.

I'm fine. Absolutely fine.

Walking down the stairs of my workshop, to the small storefront I've set up, I pull up my now shoulder length hair into a messy ponytail at the back of my head, a few strands falling down my face.
I go over the shelves, making sure every example painting is perfectly in place, that the shelves are dusted and that the other little painting kits are set up. I have seven painting appointments today, and one is for some kid's birthday party.

I like hosting birthday parties. They help to introduce some sort of happiness and feeling of belonging that I haven't felt in a long time.

I should probably explain why I'm in this place, and what it even is. This is... my shop. I opened it a year ago after I'd discovered my passion in painting. I call it Le Pinceau Saignant. It's French for 'The Bleeding Brush'. I'm not sure exactly why I named it that, but it feels right.

Since she left me, I've had to survive on my own. And as much as I hate to admit it, she left a wound in my heart that still bleeds to this day. It's mostly scarred over now, but every once in awhile, something picks at it and it reopens. The scarred layer is never thick enough to fully heal.

I'm never strong enough to fully heal.

I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. But the more that time goes on, the more I think that this will be the end all be all. That I'll keep bleeding and scarring for the rest of my life.

Just as I wipe off the last piece of dried paint off of the small wooden table in the back, the familiar chime of the bell rings, and I look up, putting a smile on my face.

I took my medication this morning, and had a cup of chamomile tea, so I think I'll be okay for the day. As long as she doesn't find out I'm here.

"Welcome in," I say with a smile from behind the front desk, grabbing a white apron with my shop's logo and putting it around my neck, tying a knot in the front, clipping a name tag to the front. 'Félix', it reads. I wonder why I wear it. Why would my customers need to know my name anyways? They walk in, they buy, they paint, and they leave. Nothing has ever gone beyond that.

I've learned to smile over the years, because it's annoying when you don't and then everyone around you starts getting suspicious because 'are you okay?' 'did I do something?' 'what happened?' is all you hear all day long, and it's just so tiring. So I use the strings of my apron as a sort of marionette string to pull the corners of my lips up and smile.

Because smiles make people comfortable. Smiles sell paintings. Smiles are a universal sign that everything in your life is perfect, and therefore, smiles are a sure fire way to keep everything going smoothly.

A somewhat tall brunette with olive skin, a taller dark haired man with darker skin, and a group of about 4 children, two of them about twelve or thirteen, and two only in a double stroller, walk in the shop, and make their way towards the counter. She looks familiar, but I can't exactly put my finger on who she is. It looks like she recognizes me, from the look in her eyes, and then glanced over to the man beside her, but she shrugs it off.

"I have an appointment for this morning. It should be under Alya Lahiffe," she says, and I nod and begin to pull out my appointment book, but the name clicks. Crap. I look up, and I freeze. I say nothing, because the man recognizes me.

"Nice to see you again, Felix," he says, and I only offer a curt smile. "You as well," I say, and then nod for them to follow me to a room in the back.

This is terrifying. Never in my year of being open have I run into anyone as close to Marinette as Alya. I saw Chloe once, but as soon as we locked eyes, she practically ran out. I'm pretty sure Marc and Nathaniel were in here once, but they hardly recognized me. Must be the hair. I didn't have my nametag on that day.

When they're all seated, I decide to act like nothing happened in the last seven years since high school graduation, and look at the babies in the stroller. "Are they yours?" I ask, looking up to them.

Alya nods with a little smile and strokes one of the twins' heads. "Mhm, we had them about eight months ago," she says, and I crouch down. They look identical, and I look at her sisters, who are looking through the catalog I had on the table of all the options.

"Twins must run in the family," I chuckle, and they just laugh, but it's not a real laugh, I can tell. It's tense in here. We haven't spoken since Marinette and I were dating. Since before things change.

Clearing my throat, I just clasp my hands together. "Anyways, welcome! What can I help you with? Special occasion?" I ask, trying to sound as loose as possible, even though everything inside of me is strung so tightly I can feel my voice turn out of tune.

Nino shrugs and looks at the girls who are giggling over a photo of a pufferfish in the catalog. "We're babysitting them today, and they wanted to come here, so we decided to take them. Didn't know you had an art shop," he chuckles, and I just nod.

"Ah, fun, an outing," I reply, and then grab a few canvases and lay them out in front of them. "It's on the house, don't even worry about paying." It's the least I can do. I guess. They tried to reach out to me a few months after the breakup, but I never replied. I was still in a state of grief.

I went back to the front to gather the items they'd need for painting and brought them back, setting them on the table, including cups of water, multiple different size brushes, texture sponges, and acrylic and watercolor palettes. "That should be everything. Once you finish, I'll keep them here for a few days and let them dry with a layer of primer and then you can pick them up by Saturday. Let me know if you need anything," I smile, and leave their table with a sigh.

Checking my watch, I frown. Devon was supposed to be here ten minutes ago, when the store opened. But he was late a lot, so it didn't surprise me much.

Devon's been my only sort of friend since the breakup. We met in the waiting room at therapy, and we were polar opposites. But you know what they say; opposites attract. He's hyper, cheerful, and smiles all the time, regardless of his mood. It's kind of unsettling, I'm not going to lie. But he helps me to smile sometimes, which is a benefit that I can't turn down.

When the door opens again, my eyes turn up to see Devon. He runs his hand through his curly black hair, laughing nervously as he makes his way towards the counter. "Sorry I'm late, Félix, mom needed me to run to the store before this," he says as I hand him his apron and name tag.

"Maybe I should change your clock-in time to 10 minutes before opening so you'll be here on time,"  I nudge his arm, and he only gives me a fake smile and bat of his lashes.

"You know what? The coffee house doesn't open till 9, which is right at this time, and you know as well as I do that I do not survive without a mocha frappe," he says, leaning on the counter.

I only laugh a little and shake my head. "I suppose you're right, a zombie would be no help in this place. Did you bring me something?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow and looking around him.

When he gulps, I can practically see the beads of sweat roll down his brow, and so I shake my head, chuckling to myself. "Nevermind, it's not a big deal. Hey, someone's coming in to pick up a painting at 9:45, would you go find the order for Bryan Newman in the backroom?"

He nods, and I can see the relief wash down his posture, immediately relaxing as he goes towards the back to do as asked.

I try to relax, to get my mind off the family in the paint room, but I can't help but worry. What if Alya tells Marinette about this place? About me? Would she dare show her face? Would I be able to face her if she did?