Portrait of Us (15 page)

“Corinne, this is coming along well.” She pointed at my red painting in progress of the lake at sunset. “Very interesting subject matter. What made you choose red to paint it? Most people would have gone with blue or green.”

I pointed at the sunset, where red poured in streams from the setting sun. “It felt like going with reds and pinks was better for a sunset. And the color gives it more warmth than you'd get from blue or green.”

She nodded. “Looking great. Don't be afraid to loosen up those lines. Red is a passionate color. Pull that emotion out from your heart and be free with it. Don't hold yourself back.”

She walked off, and I stared at my painting. How could I unleash that emotion? Passion—I felt it, for sure. It sparked under my skin when I thought of art. But it never quite seemed to translate to the paper the way I wanted it to.

What could I do to push it to the next level?

A soft whisper brushed against my ear, and instantly my skin tingled with awareness. “Can we talk after class?” It was Matthew,
peering down at me. He looked tired, his hair disheveled. His brow was furrowed. But there was no anger in his eyes. Just a touch of wariness.

I gave a wordless nod, drinking him in.

He nodded in return and then proceeded to his station, squirting dollops of green onto his pallet. I watched him use a pallet knife to get a thick scoop up and streak it down the canvas. I couldn't tell what his scene was yet since he was focusing on layering in all the dark shades first, but it intrigued me.

Class passed painfully slowly, minutes ticking by in a drag. I was distracted by the lingering scent of Matthew's skin, how his words had brushed against my ear, the emotions in his eyes. What did he want to say to me?

Finally, Teni told us it was time to wrap up. I rinsed off my palette and brushes and cleaned up my station. Students filed out into the bright afternoon sunshine. I lingered at my table, waiting for Matthew to finish his work. By now, my stomach was a mass of wild butterflies.

When he was done, he turned to me and indicated with his head that we should go outside. I followed him through the door into the heat. The afternoon sun had kicked in—it had to be in the nineties outside right now.

Sweat trickled down my back. “Can we go over there?” I asked, pointing toward a large shade tree a few feet away.

He nodded, and we sat down at the base of the trunk. It wasn't much cooler, but at least the sun wasn't scorching us.

“Hey—” he started, right as I said, “Um—”

We both paused and gave self-conscious laughs.

Matthew raked his hand through his hair. “I'm sorry for making you so mad last night.” His voice was low, rumbling. “I didn't mean it as an insult, but I can see why you took it that way. I hope you're not still angry with me.”

I swallowed. “No, I'm sorry. I was unfair to walk away like that without even talking.” I paused, swallowed again. More sweat dribbled down my torso, and I fanned my neckline to get air flowing against my skin. “I'm a little oversensitive about it.”

His gaze danced across the horizon as he watched people walk by on the sidewalk. “I didn't mean to push. I'm just curious about you. You seem like you can do everything, like you're good at everything. It makes me want to know what makes you happy.”

His words made me pause. What did make me happy? Being good at academics gave me a sense of pride, accomplishment. But did it fill me with joy? The rush I got from success never seemed to last long enough. I was always chasing that next rush, hoping it would give me that feeling again.

The realization made me a little sad. What else did I have if I wasn't winning, being the best? Was my life nothing more than a string of accomplishments, checked off on some never-ending mental list?

“I think art makes me genuinely happy,” I finally said. “But it also challenges me because it's not something measurable. Instead, its measurement comes from enjoyment.”

“I think we need to try something else,” Matthew blurted.

“What?”

“For our project. This isn't the right one.” He leaned toward me, peered down into my eyes. My skin tingled in response to the intense stare. “We both know it—we need to scrap it and start over. I've wanted to talk to you about it for a couple of days now but I just didn't know how.”

He was right. Our project wasn't flowing. It was missing something—that sense of enjoyment, for starters.

I gave a slow nod. “Okay. Do you have any ideas?”

The weight seemed to disappear off his shoulders. His whole being lightened, and it was like having the intensity of the sun on me full force. I couldn't help but get warmer. “I do. I know time is running out, but I got an idea last night and I think it would work out great.”

My lungs froze in anticipation. For some reason, I knew whatever he was going to say would be important.

“We need to paint each other. Split the screen as we did before, but we paint half of the face of the other person—the way we see each other. Honestly. So we can still use the split-image idea we both agreed on, but with better subjects. Ourselves.”

I blinked, scrubbed a hand across my face, trying to wrap my mind around it. Our faces blending together. Him drawing the lines of my eyes.

My mouth.

A lump grew in my throat. Oh man, that meant we'd be
spending hours staring at each other while we composed our halves of the image. It was going to be intense and emotional. Was I ready for it?

But I had to admit, it was a good idea. A great one, even. And if we could pull it off . . . it could be intriguing enough to help us win.

I straightened my back as a breeze whipped around the tree, fluttering the hem of my shirt. Matthew and I had to go big with this one. We had to make it just right. So I would push aside my self-consciousness and take a risk.

Just like Teni had advised us to.

“Okay,” I said softly. “I'm in. Let's give this idea of yours a try.”

We went back inside to catch Teni before she left, explaining the idea and asking if we could use the studio on Saturday, after I was done working at the bakery. She tilted her head and listened as Matthew explained his vision.

“I like it,” she declared, looking at me. “It will be interesting to see how Matthew portrays you in a modern style, Corinne. And how you'll bring your classical art style into his design. It's intriguing and personal.” She beamed at us. “Yes, come on Saturday. Time is running out, so make sure to let me know if you two need anything else.”

After we left the studio, I went to turn toward my house, but Matthew caught my hand.

“We good?” he asked, and there was a thread of something in his voice that made the breath hitch in my throat.

I could only nod.

His thumb caressed the flesh of my palm as he squeezed my hand and walked away. I watched him go, heart slamming in my chest, hand almost on fire from the soft scorch of his touch.

I anticipated Saturday and feared it like nothing I'd ever experienced before. But I had a feeling it was going to be one intense day.

I floated all the way back home.

Matthew slid his hand along my arm, making the flesh erupt in a million goose bumps. “Right here, please,” he said. He was totally in artist mode, not seeing me as Corinne but as the subject of his piece.

I only wished I could maintain such professionalism right now. I could barely make my lungs function with him this close.

For the last few minutes, Matthew had been posing me, playing with the blinds to determine how much light he wanted on my face. Shifting my body to just the right angle. Doing everything a savvy artist does to prepare the subject.

I, on the other hand, had been awkward and gawky. Matthew had met me here at the studio after I'd gotten off work, saying he wanted to work on me first. I'd never been a model before, so this was all new to me.

“Perfect,” he declared, stepping back.

It was Saturday afternoon, and I was seated on a stool at the front of Teni's studio. The shades had been lifted so light indirectly
shone on my skin. At least I wouldn't be sweating in front of him—that would be far too embarrassing.

I'd taken a lot of care with my appearance today, knowing he was going to be staring intently at me. My makeup was soft and subtle, just enough to highlight my cheekbones and the curve of my lower lip. A little bit of mascara to make my lashes seem longer and thicker. Charlie had laughed at me for spending so long in the bathroom—I'd shoved him out and locked the door behind me.

It was worth the effort and time to look my best. For the painting, of course, I told myself.

“Okay, stay still. I'm going to do some sketches of you.” Matthew had a tone that said he was completely in control. He'd definitely shifted into artist mode.

We were silent for the first twenty minutes or so. The clock was on the far wall behind him so at least I was able to see how much time was passing. I kept my gaze forward, trying not to look at Matthew. Knowing he was staring at my skin, seeing all the blemishes and flaws. How one of my ears was slightly higher than the other.

“Relax your face,” he said with a grin. “Your mouth just thinned into a tight line. Are you okay?”

“I'm just nervous,” I admitted. “I've never done this before.” I rubbed my damp palms on my shorts-clad thighs.

He tapped his chin with the bottom of his pencil as he stared at his easel. I couldn't see what he was drawing, only the
back of the paper. “Where is your favorite vacation spot?”

I froze in place. “Huh?” The question came out of left field.

He turned those brilliant blue eyes to me, and a slow smile crawled across his face. “Mine is the Grand Canyon. You never realize how small people are until you see something so massive in comparison. It was amazing. I've always wanted to try to capture it in a drawing somehow, but I don't know how to show the sheer scale of it.”

I closed my eyes for a second as I ran through my mental memory bank. Our family used to go on vacations back when I was a kid, though since Mom and Dad were working more now, that didn't happen as much. But I still remembered one that made me smile. “As corny as it sounds, one of our best trips was to Disneyland.”

I heard his pencil scratching on the paper. “What made it so great?”

“Well, it was more the fact that we were all together, just relaxing. We saw some shows, ate a lot of food, laughed the entire time.” I smiled, still remembering vivid flashes of the vacation. The air had been warm. Brilliant fireworks exploding at night. We'd stuffed our faces with cotton candy and junk food. Even Dad had relaxed his usual uptight self, holding Mom's hand as we'd all strolled down Main Street.

It sounded like Matthew's breath caught. I opened my eyes, but he was looking at the paper. Huh, I must have imagined it.

“What's your favorite food?” he asked me.

“Like I can pick one.” I chuckled. “Um, I love mac and cheese. There's something so simple about it. You?”

“Chicken wings.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Buffalo sauce or barbeque?”

He huffed. “Please. Buffalo sauce. Gimme the spicy all day long.”

I leaned back slightly in the chair and crossed my feet at the ankles. I wasn't sure if it was his intention, but the conversation was helping me relax. I wasn't feeling so on the spot anymore.

“What is your biggest fear?” he asked me. He kept his attention on the drawing, his pencil making tiny skritching sounds.

I swallowed. I had lots of little fears—falling into a grate on the sidewalk, having a spider drop on my face, getting lost in a big city. But my biggest one so far linked deeply into the thing I prided myself on most.

My drive to succeed.

And yet, another ever-growing fear was edging its way to the forefront, something I had not anticipated happening. The fear of falling for Matthew and being utterly, devastatingly hurt if he didn't feel the same.

Or even worse, if he did, but we couldn't make a relationship work.

No way was I ready to admit to that to him, though. Falling for someone was like jumping off a cliff. I could see the cool, inviting water below and I knew it had the potential to be the most amazing thing I'd ever experienced. But that leap of faith,
where you stuck your foot out over the edge and let yourself dive into the mysteries below the rippling surface . . . I wasn't ready for it yet.

The thought of giving in to the unknown petrified me.

But looking into Matthew's eyes, the color of the ocean, made an increasingly larger part of me want to abandon my fear and jump in headfirst.

Chapter
Fifteen