Periwinkle

16| SOLTITUDE

SHANE'S POV

Out of all the things I could've been doing right now, I never thought I'd be doing this. When I got the offer to come here and take Lilian Anderson's place for this semester, I thought it would give me a much-needed break from everything.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

It turned out that our mother insisted I stay with Leo when I came here, and I honestly didn't know if she did that because she wanted me to keep an eye on Leo or the other way around. As much as I preferred to be alone, it didn't really bother me to stay with him because I knew he would mind his business most of the time and leave me alone.

That's what I wanted. To be left alone. That's exactly why I came here too. To be left alone and be away from my too-empty penthouse apartment, away from the worried gazes of the well-intentioned friends and family, away from the lifestyle I once had, away from everything. So, when I got my first chance to escape, I did.

I, however, should've known that escaping in life wasn't easy. Life, especially my life, didn't offer the luxury of seclusion.

I turned back to the painting resting on the easel as the girl picked up the brush.

I never thought I'd have to help students this way. This was not my job. This was not what I signed up for. Why was I doing this?

I slightly shook my head and told myself to stop thinking and focus on the strokes of the colors before me, which seemed to be trying their best to tell a story.

"Let's start by enhancing the contrast here," I instructed. "Deepen the shadows to evoke a sense of introspection."

I just had to get this over with. It would be over soon. Get this done, then discuss the outline of her thesis, and then she'd be gone.

I looked at her as she slowly made her way closer to the easel with the brush in her hand.

I gritted my teeth to keep from saying something rude. Could she be any slower?

I traced her movements with my eyes as she dipped the paintbrush into the palette of muted tones. She glanced at me then, worrying her bottom lip as her hand hesitated before she focused on her work, and the brush finally touched the canvas and began to paint as I continued to guide her.

Fuck, what was the deal with her? Her responses seemed slower than usual as time passed, her strokes becoming sluggish. She was testing my patience. When I first looked at the painting, I had to acknowledge that she was not bad. Even in the depths of my contemplation, I found myself drawn into the story she was trying to weave with the colors. Maybe that's why I told her to put her canvas on the easel. Maybe that's why I was helping her.

But now she was getting on my nerves.

"Pick up your pace, Ms. Williams!" I snapped, frustration gnawing at my gut. "We don't have all day."

"Uh," she hesitated, throwing a nervous glance my way.

"What?" I barked.

"Nothing." She shook her head. Her face looked flush, a sheet of sweat clinging to her forehead. And if I was not wrong, it looked like the hand that was holding the brush was slightly shaking. I saw fatigue in her strokes as she continued quietly, but I couldn't see any passion in the hand clutching the brush.

This was not what I was expecting from her. This didn't look like the same girl who created all those artworks that I've seen by her so far. This girl didn't look like the one Mrs. Anderson spoke so highly about. This girl's brushstrokes weren't the blur of controlled chaos I was expecting them to be, but of hesitant stumbles.