Typical - A Lesbian Romance [NaNoWriMo 2013] // ON HOLD

Chapter Three

Last weekend, I had promised Wyatt that I would call Chelsea when I finally got home. I had every intention to, don’t get me wrong, but once I was sitting in the middle of my living room floor my phone in one hand and the small card she gave me in the other, my nerves got the better of me. What can I say, I was a eighteen year old lesbian with little to no experience playing on this side of the court. I had every right in the world to be nervous about contacting a girl that obviously showed some sort of interest in me. But I shouldn’t of sat there and let my mind win. I debated on typing those numbers into my phone for over an hour and finally with a large huff I slipped the card back into my jean’s pocket. I promised myself I’d do it later on, that I’d talk to Wyatt and go through with it. That time never came either though. I didn’t call her and that card was still sitting on my bedside table a week after the party while Wyatt pulled me hastily into the art supply store down the block from my house.

I still hadn’t told him that I never called Chelsea. I simply avoided the topic at all costs and while he pulled me throughout the store shelving I didn’t think twice about it. Wyatt was like a kid in a candy shop at these places. His eyes lit up as they bounced between jars of acrylic and oil paints. A large smile spread across his face as he ran his finger gently over the soft bristles of the brand new paint brushes sitting in a large splatter painted display at the end of the isle and his happiness radiated from all of his pores when he finally stopped in front of a ceiling high rack of every canvas type and size you could ever image. To Wyatt, this was probably the highlight of his week. He loved painting; it was the one thing that really gave him that kind of irreplaceable joy. And to top it all off he was amazing at it. With just a few hours’ time and his kit of paints beside him he could paint photo realistic painting of whatever he was looking at. Every stroke, line and texture that was part of that exact moment of time could be captured on his canvas. He was an incredibly talented artist while me on the other hand, his best friend, still remained utterly typical. My greatest talent had to be a tie between my ability to type out a text message in 5 seconds flat and my gift of being able to walk down the stairs drunk.

I couldn’t have told you how I long I stood there next to Wyatt while he practically bounced up and down. His hands darting out every few seconds to grab another large white canvas to add to the collection of them he was starting to acquire in a miniature shopping cart. I didn’t know why he needed so many of those canvases but if it made him happy I guess that’s all that really mattered. He saved up money from the job he worked for weeks to do his art supply runs at the end of the month because his parents thought art wouldn’t further him in life and wouldn’t give him a cent. I was pretty sure he liked it that way though, they left him alone and he left them alone.

I was about to walk off on Wyatt and go poke around those jars of brightly colored paints a few feet away when someone came up behind me, their hand tapped me on the shoulder lightly to get my attention. “ Oh I’m Sorry!” I apologized, simply thinking that it was someone who needed to get by me and Wyatt, before I actually turned around.

A week after I neglected to call Chelsea she was standing behind me. She looked just the way I remembered, breath taking. She had on that same leather jacket and switched the red dress I saw last time we ran into each other for a plain white v neck, a pair of tight skinny jeans that perfectly molded her long legs, and those same leather boots. The most striking features about her this time wasn’t her phyisical apperance however it was the almost furious look set on her young beautiful features. One of her hands was shaking a large reusable bag full of spray paint that she had obviously collected amongst the stores shelving before she spotted me standing there. “So why on earth didn’t you call me Sophia? Am I not attractive enough for you?” She bit at me, a light accent of some sort creeping out from between her syllables.