Heat (h.s.)

One

Here we go! An entire new story for you all! I'm really loving is so far and I hope you guys feel the same way! I'd love your feedback (good or bad). Thank you for reading!

Xo,
Liv

Being near the water always had a way of calming me down. The salty waves slapped against the seawall as tourists crowded around the battery, eyes straining to see Fort Sumter off in the distance.

I sighed in contentment as a cool sea breeze blew in off the water. The city was always nice this time of year, as long as you could stand the heat. Seeing as I had spent all twenty-one years of my life living in Charleston, I was certainly used to the relentless sun and even more troublesome humidity. Humidity was something which was often discussed in the Low Country of South Carolina. I'd often find myself saying to out-of-towners, "it's not the heat that'll get ya, it's the humidity!", which was just another southern cliche that I'd heard a million times in my life.

I hummed to myself as I skimmed my paintbrush across the canvas, attempting to block out the noises of the children running in the park behind me. I truly was in my own world when I was painting. It was something I'd been doing since I was just a little girl. My grandmother would take me out here and we would watch the waves grow and curl back into themselves. She would point out all the colors of the water, the blues, the greens, the whites. Then she'd guide my brush on the canvas, teaching me how to recreate what I saw. We came out here so much that the brush essentially became an extension of my own body. As I'd gotten older, I'd grown to think that my grandmother was the only person who would ever truly understand me.

But that's a topic for another day.

I was snapped out of my nostalgic thoughts by a girl who looked to be just a few years older than me. "Your highlighter," she spoke as if she was clarifying something she had already said.

"I'm sorry, my what?" I asked as politely as I could manage. Southern manners were something that had been ingrained in me from a very young age. Yes ma'am, no sir, all that.

"Your highlighter," she repeated, "what brand is it?"

I furrowed my brows and looked down at my pallet, assuming she was talking about some paint product I was using. It suddenly dawned on me that this girl was asking about makeup. My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, and I laughed.

"This?" I asked, pointing to my face. The girl nodded, and I leaned my head back in laughter once again. "This is just sweat."

The girl followed suit, her cheeks turning pink against her pale skin. "Oh my gosh, I'm so embarrassed," she giggled, leaning her head into her hand.

I laughed and shook my head, turning away slightly to add another glob of paint onto my canvas. "Don't be embarrassed, seriously. I'm the one sweating like a sinner in church."

"Well, you look lovely," she added.

Lovely.

I cocked my head slightly to the side and ripped my eyes off my canvas, suddenly realizing that this girl had an English accent.

"You're not from around here, are you?" I mentally cringe at myself for using this much-overplayed phrase, but hey, it gets the job done.

"What gave it away? Was it the accent or the fact that I apparently have no idea how to appropriately speak to other human beings?" She chuckled light heartedly.

"It's seriously not a big deal. It's flattering, really," I assured her.

"Uh huh," she hummed, "I'll keep telling myself that. But yeah, I live in London."