Mia's clumsy nature has her no stranger to messes, but this is something else entirely.
She just wants to get her ex-boyfriend and long-time family friend, Colin, off her back. That's why she lies and says Silas, the guy she just met, is her boyfrie...
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Mia hasn't been with anyone since Colin. Hasn't touched or been touched romantically by anyone in a little over a year. Hasn't even really thought about it, honestly. But when she sees the painting Silas has done for her, she wants to do more that kiss him quickly on the cheek.
He used her favorite color as a background, and the daisies... She never mentioned that daisies are her favorite, but they're heavily featured in her wardrobe. And they're just so beautiful, there on the canvas, jumping out at her almost, like she could just reach out and pluck petals one by one.
He loves me, he loves me not...
She shakes her head a little to dismiss that thought. Something like that shouldn't even be drifting across her mind after knowing him only two days. Same with this warm, bubbly feeling in her chest. It shouldn't be there.
She thinks that she'll probably have to bring up rules on PDA before the weekend –discuss what's okay and what's not okay once they're in the eye of her family- because she doesn't want to cross any lines with him. She doesn't want to mess this up. And she's always been so good at making messes.
But that's not going to happen. Not with this. This... this is going to stay neat and tidy.
Let's make a deal, she signs suddenly, sitting up straighter on the retaining wall. We have to hang out together until this painting dries.
He gives her a bit of a look, like maybe she doesn't understand what she's proposing. It'll be hours.
I know, she answers, trying to hide her smile, but when she peeks up at him, she sees a grin growing on his face and the bubbles in her chest rise up to her throat. So tell me. How will we spend our time?
She thinks his eyes drop to her mouth, but maybe it's unintentional because they quickly move to the left and then toward the sky as he leans back, takes a deep breath, and fishes his phone from his pocket.
It's almost noon, he tells her after he's put his phone away again. Are you hungry? I can have something delivered to us.
She smiles. That sounds great.
Forty-five minutes later, they're finishing up their sandwiches and tucking away the trash into a bag to throw away later.
Mia hums contently to herself and then looks to Silas as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, admires the way his hair falls into his eyes.
She realizes that she needs to busy her hands, because she's getting funny ideas about reaching toward him and pushing the curls away from his face, so she signs, Let's talk about you now.
Well, you already know the basics.
Yes, she learned a handful of things last night when they were texting. Like that neutral tones are his favorite and how he gravitates to classic literature more than the contemporary. Or how his comfort food is grilled cheese with tomato soup and his favorite season is fall. He has a sweet tooth; baked goods are his weakness. He enjoys playing chess and he dog ears the pages of his books and he likes hot tea with honey.
Tell me about your family, she prompts.
He quirks his lips for a moment, then clicks his tongue and lifts his hands. It's just me and my mom. It's always been that way. And I love her to pieces, but she can be a little bit too... He struggles a bit here, tilting his head to the side, and then drops that train of thought and signs, Whenever I tell her she's being pessimistic, she says that it's not pessimism, it's realism. She's supportive of my career choice on the surface, but I think she's expecting it to not work out. For me to realize it's just a hobby and move on to something else. Something with more reliable hours and pay.
My parents are the same way, she tells him. They act supportive, but I can see it on their faces. Especially my mom's. She wanted me to choose something else. They're more concerned about our income than our personal happiness.
He shrugs. They're just trying to look out for us. But, yeah. You're right. I'd rather be dirt poor than work an office job.
Right? Doesn't an office job just sound miserable?
He nods, makes a face like he agrees more than she knows.
I don't want to send emails and do reports all day, she goes on. I want to create things. I want to show kids how amazing it is to create things. Show them how to channel their emotions, whatever they might be, into something beautiful.
Exactly. I want to be able to speak my mind. To channel everything into my work, he explains. Art's like math. It's universal. People look at it and they understand. I want my work to make people feel things. To feel alive.
Her heart warms at his passion. She can see it in the way his hands move, the set of his eyebrows and the depth in his eyes.
We all need a little reminder sometimes, she signs. And I think art is one of the best ways to do that. That's why we write and read and make music and listen to it and paint and draw and sculpt and view the beautiful things people create. It makes our hearts beat. And if your heart beats for painting, then you should keep doing it no matter what anyone else says, because your work will make someone else's heart beat twice as hard.
Like hers when she looks at the daisies.
He just gazes at her, a soft smile on his lips, and she thinks she could stare back at him forever, but a temptation to lean in is rising, so she signs, I want to show you something and then gets up and retrieves her tote bag from the grass.
She pulls out her journal and hands it to him, and he looks up at her in question.
You showed me your work, so it's only fair I show you mine, she tells him. But still, he hesitates, so she leans toward him and flips open the journal to the page she did today.
She watches as his fingers trace over the page, over neutral colors and different textures and quotes from the novels he's made paintings for written in her careful cursive.
A page for you, she signs when he looks up at her, heart thumping too hard in her chest. So I'll always remember our first date.
She gives him a teasing wink, trying to make light of it, but she means it. And she silently hopes he feels the same about today. That it's special. That it's the beginning of something bigger than just a ruse.
I guess I should let you keep it, she continues, because he still hasn't responded to her. Since I already have this beautiful painting. You should have something to remember today by, too.
But he just looks at her, smiling enough that his dimples appear, and he carefully closes the journal before handing it back to her.
