And Then We Fell Apart (18+)

chapter 29

I'm in love with you.

I'm in love with you.

I'm in love with you.

The words dance around my head, spinning tirelessly on a loop that will never cease because he's in love with me. Sam is in love with me.

Paintbrush in hand, I move it across the nearly covered canvas with the brightest shade of fuscia I can find. Strokes are free and light, unlike the heavy handed, aggressive ones I had in the past. The only thing heavy handed about this painting is the obscure use of color that would have made me cringe at the angsty age of seventeen. It doesn't seem so repelling now.

Artists paint the way they feel. I didn't always believe that, but when I took a hesitant look back at my portfolio it was easy to decipher the way I was feeling during each one. I didn't paint the town's Christmas lights in black and white hues because I was happy. I didn't slather coats of black and gray over an old painting of mine and Sam's spot in the brush because I was content.

And how, I'm not painting god knows what in bright shades of pink and green and yellow and blue because I'm angry at the world.

The color proves to me that I'm in love.

I'm in love.

I'm in love.

I'm so in love, I don't even care that these god forsaken purple headphones are ready to fall off my ears because they play the sounds of a CD Sam made for me with songs his friends from school like. He tells me track seven and eight remind him of me, so they play on consistent repeat as I hum along mindlessly to the words I don't know yet.

All I do know is that I love them, and I hope to learn every lyric as soon as possible.

I look down at my cup of water, realizing it's an opaque milky brown from the combinations of every hue. I check my watch and see that it's been about an hour and a half since I started painting in the spare room. After pleading with my mom that the bay window light is unbeatable, she let me occupy a small corner in the room as long as I promise to 1.) clean up my mess and 2.) not make a mess.

So far, so good.

I grab a few dirty paintbrushes and drop them into the cup before wiping my hands on the oversized T-shirt used for many, many hours of painting. I carefully pull off my headphones in an attempt not to hurt myself with the sharp, broken edge.

As I turn, I quickly realize I'm not by myself like I thought, and I'm suddenly worried that I'll break rule number two when the paint-colored water sloshes in wildly in the cup.

"You scared me," I gasp.

Sam smiles as he leans against the open doorframe, late summer afternoon sun kissing his skin through the bay window. He looks comfortable there, which only tells me that he may have been there for some time.

"When did you get here?" I ask breathlessly.

He shrugs. His arms look tan beneath his white t-shirt, which I know is prevalent from the last few hours he was outside. He's been working with Bennett on some landscaping this summer to get some extra cash which ultimately takes him away from me, but allows more time for painting.

"A little while ago," his blinks are slow.

My cheeks flush because of how good he looks. I don't necessarily mind that he was watching. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I didn't want you to stop. I knew you would if you saw I was here."

That's true.

"And I never get to actually watch you paint. You never let me," he stands still in the doorway, looking handsome and tall and clean and warm.