Their Masterpiece

Chapter Six

I was walking home, humming to myself as I watched kids run around and play. Because of the meeting, I missed the bus; although, I'm kinda glad I don't have to get on that noisy yellow death trap.

Dylan is coming over at 6:30, so I have a little over two hours. The house is mostly cleaned, and dinner shouldn't be too hard. I used to cook for Zach all the time. He'd claimed that I made the best food he's ever tasted, and that I should cook more often. I think he was just too lazy to cook himself.

My side still hurts, there's definitely an ugly bruise, and I'm not looking forward to getting up tomorrow.

A few minutes later I arrived home and went straight to my bedroom. I put my backpack on the end of my bed and threw my shoes next to the door with all my other shoes. I pulled off my hoodie and hung it up, took some homework out of my backpack and started it. I can probably finish both language and science before I need to head downstairs to make dinner.

<<<~~~>>>

I put the glass baking dish filled with chicken casserole in the oven. I wandered into the living room and saw a bunch of police reports on the coffee table. I neatly stacked them up and set them on my dad's dresser in his bedroom. I walked to my room and brushed my hair. I may not care a lot, but I care a little bit.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Light blue skinny jeans, a loose pink shirt, and my converse. I could have done without the shoes, but whatever.

I heard the doorbell ring and I walked downstairs, well, more like sprinted. I opened the door and the mailman stood there holding out a package. I laughed at myself silently for thinking it was Dylan. I took the package and thanked him before shutting the door.

A few seconds later the doorbell rang again, I groaned in annoyance before opening the door again.

There stood Dylan. Before now I never really paid too much attention to his appearance, but now it's clogged my mind like fog on a cool morning.

His pale blond hair was trimmed shorter on the sides and longer on top. His blue t-shirt sat on his wide shoulders and clung to his biceps. Well, triceps. This guy is ripped, I don't think there's a muscle on his body that doesn't lift weights. His eyes are a strikingly bright blue, which made my knees feel like jelly.

"Uh... Lily?" He snapped me out of my thoughts as I moved out of the way to let him inside. I shut the door after he walked in and walked over to the kitchen and checked the timer on the oven.

"Well the food won't be ready for twelve more minutes, would you like something to drink?" I looked over at him, his eyes were studying the walls of my house, taking. "Water is fine."

I nodded in response and poured him a glass of water. "Is that you?" he asked, pointing to a picture of me and Zach last summer at the beach trying to learn to surf. In the picture Zach is laughing at me and I look like I'm about to fall off, (I did). "Yeah, that's me and my brother,"

His eyes continued scanning from picture to picture, learning more about me in five minutes, than any friend has in five years. "Where do people buy paintings? I've always wondered that. Are there like, painting stores?" He was looking at a painting to the left of the t.v. It was a woman with fiery red hair and brown eyes sitting in a gazebo playing chess with a gruff old man who was taking a sip from his mug while moving his white bishop, holding it between his wrinkled fingers.

"I painted that, actually."

He continued looking at the painting, "Did you paint those too?" he asked, pointing to the other paintings.

"I painted a few of them, the majority were painted by my mother."

"Which ones did you paint?" I looked around, then walked further into the living room.

"Well, I did this one, and this one, and that one, and that one over there." I pointed back and forth, Dylan's eyes following my finger's point.

Once I stopped, he towards one painting in particular. It just happened to be my personal favorite; a masterpiece even.

His face held no emotion, almost stale looking.

But his eyes flashed over and over as he stared deeply into each brush stroke and color. His mind doing double back flips as he admired the artistry.

He reluctantly peeled his eyes away from the framed portrait before looking at me.

"How's your side?" I sighed and met his gaze, before looking at the ground.

"It's fine." He made an indescribable face before walking over to me.

"You got kicked pretty hard, I'm surprised you're even walking. Does it hurt?" I continued to watch the ground. Why does he care? He doesn't, just trying to be nice. I'm an idiot for inviting him over, I could have just left the nurse's office and be done with it. Never have to talk to him again.

"It's nothing I'm not used to."

The oven beeped, I took the opportunity to escape his intense eyes. I took the food out of the oven and put a serving on two plates, grabbing utensils and napkins, setting them on the table. Getting his drink and making one for myself before sitting down at the able.

He got the memo and sat down across from me. Diving into his food with no hesitation. I did the same, my angry stomach appreciating the delicious gift.

"Thanks for the food. I can't say anyone besides my mom has made me a meal." I gave him a small smile.

"Well you did punch someone in the face for me, that deserves some kind of award." He chuckled, "Maybe I'll just punch everyone in the face from now on. This food is great!" I just laughed and continued eating.

We talked and laughed. And for a moment, if only for a moment, I forgot my problems. It was nice.

I shut the door as he waved goodbye. I turned around and looked at my favorite painting.

Smiling softly, I looked longingly at my mother before going to my room and falling peacefully to sleep.