Brown Eyes

Chapter 29

(Eliza's P.O.V.)

I blew a section of hair out of my face and tried to push it away with my forearm, as to not get any more of the charcoal that was on my hands onto my face. I looked at the portrait I was painting in front of me and clumsily tried to turn up the volume on my stereo. "Figure 8" by Ellie Goulding was blasting quite loudly (I was taking advantage of what I thought was an empty loft) and I almost didn't hear Emma knocking on my door.

"Hey!" Emma shouted over the music.

"What?" I shouted back, looking over the portrait again.

"Turn down the music! I want to talk to you!" she yelled.

I held up my charcoal-covered hands and yelled, "Give me a minute!"

I grabbed a rag to wipe off most of the dust and then wiped the rest on my cutoffs and bare legs. I was wearing the denim shorts, a cropped sweatshirt and had my messy hair pulled up into a much messier bun, that was probably more like a ponytail, and there was newspaper all over the floor of my room. It smelled like Febreeze and chalk, because I hadn't showered in a couple days because I was too busy working on the portrait.

"How are you doing?" Emma asked as soon as I turned off the music.

"Better," I said honestly. "Everybody has their way of coping, some people talk, some people cry, some people laugh, I make art," I said as I turned the easel around and showered her the portrait I was drawing of Graham. She gasped quietly, and a small smile almost appeared on her face.

"This is amazing, Eliza," she said, walking up to look closer at it.

"I'll have to spray it with a fixative, but I wanted to put it up at the sheriff's office," I told her. "As like, a memorial thing. We could put it up in that lobby area, so everyone who comes into the sheriff's office can see it."

"That's a great idea," she said. She looked at me. "Were you crying?"

"Probably," I said, wiping my forearm on my cheek. "If I was I didn't notice. Too focused."

"You sure you're okay?" she asked.

"Are you?" I replied.

She looked a bit taken aback, but she nodded and I smiled. "Good. Don't worry about me, I'll be alright, it's you we have to worry about."

"Why me?" she asked, as I grabbed the canvas I was working on.

"Well, you only just admitted your feelings for him, and he dies," I said. "It's not exactly rejection, but that is extremely cruel of fate to do that to you."

"Yeah, it sucks," she said with a sigh. "But I'll be okay."

"Henry thinks Regina did it," I told her.

"What?" she chuckled out.

"He thinks she stole his heart back in the fairytale world, and when he broke up with her she found it and crushed it," I said.

"Do you believe him?" Emma chuckled.

"Of course not," I lied with a laugh. Of course I believed it, but Emma is already iffy about my sanity when I keep trying to convince her that our roommate was not only Snow White, but her long lost mother, who by some magic was her age. I couldn't let her know that I believed (and was sure) that Regina's a murderer.

"I better go talk to him," she said. "Are you coming into work?"

"Maybe," I said, grabbing my can of charcoal fixative and shaking it like a spray paint can. "Probably, if the charcoal sets by the time I need to clock in."