Portrait of Us (22 page)

If I hadn't hidden in the bathroom, I could have pulled him aside, talked to him.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I blinked and moved toward the back door of the gallery, which emptied out into a small patio area for outdoor entertaining. Green plants and vines filled the open space, covering the wrought iron balcony.

I sighed and moved toward the balcony. The city view was gorgeous here—or it would be, if I could see it right now. There were too many tears crowding my eyes. I let the tears streak down my cheeks in hot rivers. Just for a moment, I'd give in to this frustration.

“Corinne,” a quiet voice said behind me. A voice I'd know anywhere.

I whipped around. There was Matthew up against the ivy-lined brick wall, staring at me with a frown marring his golden face. His suit jacket was off and draped over his forearm.

I blinked and turned my face away, trying my best to wipe my tears as subtly as possible. I didn't dare speak, not yet. I needed to get my emotions back under control.

“What's wrong?” He stepped toward me.

I opened my mouth to say,
Nothing,
to lie and tell him I was fine. But I couldn't do it. I was tired of telling myself I didn't need him. Tired of acting like art and Matthew and love and all those things I'd never dreamed of before weren't that important to me now.

Because they were. And how they deserved my time and attention too.

“I've been really upset about how things went with us,” I finally said.

“Why?” His face was unreadable, back to the emotionless shell I'd last seen. It made it hard for me to open up because I had no idea what he was feeling right now.

“Because . . .” I stared into his eyes and pushed myself to keep going, despite the tremble in my voice. “Because I messed up with you that day you told me you wanted to date me. It was a mistake for me to walk away from it. One I'd give anything to take back.”

He didn't move, didn't speak. Just stared.

“You dropped your guard and opened up to me about your feelings. And in response, I threw a bunch of reasons at you about why we wouldn't work, that our worlds were too different to ever intersect. But I was wrong—I think we could work. If we wanted to. Not that I'm saying you want to now, I mean.”

Oh wow, the words were pouring out, like the cork had been unplugged from a bottle. I couldn't seem to stop. My cheeks burned in embarrassment, but I kept speaking.

“It took me a while to realize that I'd used school and friends as an excuse to protect myself so I wouldn't get hurt if our relationship fell apart. As a preemptive strike to prevent both of us pain. But then you walked away, and I realized I
was
hurt. That hurt grew as weeks passed and we didn't talk. And I . . .” My throat tightened.

He stepped a fraction closer, those eyes still fixed on me. His Adam's apple bobbed. “You what?” he whispered, his voice gravelly.

I heard the hum of people and cars below, but the city noises faded into a soft lull around us. “I didn't fully realize how I felt about you until I saw our painting today.” My face was on fire now, my breath almost ragged as it sawed in and out of my lungs. I felt like I'd run a marathon, winded and overwhelmed and slightly tired.

I was tired of running from myself and my love for him.

“It took me losing you to realize how much I had fallen for you.” I closed my eyes, swallowed. There. I'd said it. No taking it back now. “And I've been miserable ever since.”

Even if Matthew didn't want me, even if he'd forgotten all about me while we'd been apart, I'd done something I never dreamed I could do. I'd jumped off the cliff without looking for a safety net.

I'd been braver than I'd known I could be.

A soft hand on my chin, a thumb stroking my jaw, had me opening my eyes. Matthew's eyes were hooded, his pupils so dark they almost swallowed up his irises, now a thin blue rim. “Corinne, I've missed you, too,” he said.

His other hand wrapped around my lower back, the heat of his palm almost searing me through my thin dress, and he tugged me close. My heart stopped beating for a second, hardly able to accept that Matthew was touching me, that he was looking at me with so much intensity.

“I love you,” he continued, and he gave me a crooked grin. “I've loved you for a long time, actually.”

“Oh,” I said, my voice breathy. “I figured . . . well, I thought . . .”

“I didn't want to push you. You were scared, and I grew frustrated. Then I didn't know how to approach you. But I was going to come find you today. To talk to you one more time and see if . . .” He paused, his head inching close to mine. Lips hovering so, so close. “See if there was a chance.”

“There
is
a chance,” I said, then shook my head at myself. “Um. Not
just
a chance. I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” He chuckled, and the hand on my jaw slid around to cup the back of my neck. His thumb stroked the base of my skull, and small waves of pleasure slid across my skin. “But are you sure you want to do this? I mean, be with me as my girlfriend? Even though we're so very different?” There was a flash of vulnerability in his eyes that made my heart ache.

He was afraid of getting hurt too. Afraid of me giving up on him, on us, when things got tough once school started. Yet he'd laid it all on the line again right now, taking a big risk. Just for me.

I wrapped my arms tightly around him. He smelled like the ocean, and I breathed him in. “We're not that different,” I said, pouring every ounce of earnestness into my voice. “We'll make it work out—I have faith. I know we're going to have some hard spots as we figure out how to balance friends and school and
art and everything else. But I also know I want to be with you. Unquestionably. I don't want to let you go.”

A comfortable silence stretched between us for a minute.

“I . . . I love you, Matthew,” I told him. I wanted him to know that he wasn't the only one being vulnerable here. We could support each other.

Matthew's head descended toward mine, blocking out the sun, and his mouth grazed my lips in a soft gesture. I opened my mouth, and he kissed me deeper. We fell into each other, our emotions tangled up and wrapped around us.

I slipped my hands into his thick hair, scarcely able to believe we were finally kissing—it was even better than I'd imagined. Every cell in my body sang from the intensity of us, of this one moment.

Time seemed to still. We finally drew apart, and he pressed a last kiss to my jaw, his breath as ragged as mine.

“You look beautiful today, by the way,” he told me as he glanced down at my dress. “That color makes your skin glow.”

“You look great too. You should dress like that more often,” I teased.

“Kind of hard to sink baskets in a three-piece suit,” he deadpanned. His smile widened again. “Ready to go back inside? They're all waiting for us. I, for one, am eager to hear more gushing praise about our artistic eye. And to show off my gorgeous girlfriend to everyone in that room.”

I wrapped my hand into the crook of his arm, and we walked
toward the door. A warm breeze ruffled his hair and caressed my bare skin. I cast one last glance at the patio that had made my biggest dream come true—love.

Yes, I'd jumped off the cliff. But so had he. And somehow, we'd caught each other.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” I told him, and we went back into the gallery.

Together.

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I
hitched my backpack higher
onto my shoulders and brushed back my hair, which already felt ickily greasy. My flight out of Cincinnati had left at six a.m., so I'd skipped a shower. My guitar case seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and I was beginning to question the wisdom of hauling it all the way out here. As I made my way toward the baggage claim through the cavernous, glass-ceilinged terminal, I tried not to stare as men in actual cowboy hats and boots strode by. Air force soldiers in sleek navy uniforms shouldered big blue duffels. Families with long zippered ski bags struggled past. Out the huge picture windows the mountains hulked, white and blue-gray against an impossibly azure sky. I shivered a little and grinned to myself—this was really Colorado. I was really here, thousands of miles from home, for three months. I wanted to sing my way down the terminal.

I followed the river of people out of the main terminal, stepped onto a down escalator, then followed a long underground passage to an up escalator, then allowed myself to be swept along to another up escalator. I was wondering just how much longer I'd be trailing around this airport when the escalator deposited me in front of several baggage carousels.

I hurried over to the nearest one and scanned the conveyor belt for my khaki-green army surplus duffel. Mom had been so proud when she found it for only five dollars at the thrift store. There it was, riding around and around, looking like an abandoned stuffed animal in the midst of all the black rolling suitcases surrounding it. I elbowed through a scrum of random passengers and reached forward, managing to snag the strap just as the bag moved past. Puffing slightly, I dragged it toward me and let it thump to the floor.

“Hey, thanks for getting my bag,” someone said in a southern drawl.

I looked up into the clearest blue eyes I'd ever seen.

A tall boy about my own age was standing beside me. He had a backpack too, and he wore a gray T-shirt that read
PACIFIC FOOD CO-OP
and frayed khaki shorts with sandals. His black hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes were startlingly light against his tanned skin. He smiled, showing sparkling white teeth. A leather band circled one broad wrist and a narrow silver chain glinted under the collar of his T-shirt.

I closed my mouth, which had fallen open slightly, and cleared
my throat. “Ah, sorry. This is my bag.” I tried to sound cute and casual, though I think it came out sounding more strained and weird.

He didn't even blink. “It was probably a long flight, huh? You're just a little confused.” He flashed me another grin and looped his hand under the strap. “Anyway, like I said, thanks for getting it for me. See you around.”

“Hey!” It came out louder than I intended, and several people turned to look. “Excuse me! I don't know who you are, but that's
my
bag. Put it down. Please.”

The boy studied the duffel, then looked at me for such a long moment that I flushed, then looked back at the duffel again. A slow grin spread across his face. “Let's see. My bag was my dad's, from the army. So if you're telling the truth, why would you have the same kind of bag? Unless you're in the army yourself.” He was teasing me—that much was clear. I wondered if my neck was going all splotchy.

“I'm not in the army. My mom got it at the army surplus store. Okay?” I swiped at the bag, but he slid it back out of my reach and shook his head.

“No way. I can spot a solider a mile away. What's your rank?”

I had to laugh. “I'm not exactly the military type—can't you tell?”

He let his gaze slowly wander from my feet to my head. “No way. You're tough. I mean, look at those muscles.” He squeezed my upper arm, and my pulse shot up. “Come on, what do you bench?”

I rolled my eyes. “Very funny. Look, can I please have my bag?”

“Hmm. I say it's mine; you say it's yours. What should we do?” His eyes crinkled up at the edges, and a dimple appeared in his left cheek as his smile deepened. For one electric instant we looked into each other's eyes. Then I cut my gaze away, thoroughly rattled.

“Here.” I grabbed the zipper and pulled. The bag fell open, revealing several pairs of purple and pink underwear lying on the top of a mound of jeans and T-shirts. Oops.

The boy laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the big room. “Hey, I can't argue with that. Are those standard military issue?”

My cheeks flamed. Of course I'd forgotten the underwear was on the top. I struggled with the zipper, but a pair of the underwear was caught in the teeth. Now I had no desire for anything but to get away from this person as fast as I could. “You're funny, I can see that. Hilarious, actually.” I yanked at the zipper again.

“It's one of my special talents. Here, let me.” The boy pulled hard at the zipper and raked it up to the top.

I exhaled. “Thanks. Anyway. Nice to meet you.” A little trickle of sweat ran down my chest, but at least my underwear was safely out of sight again. Without looking at him, I grabbed my bag and marched away toward the glass exit doors.

“Hey, what's your name?” he called after me.

“Private McKinley,” I yelled back over my shoulder. Then, just as I turned around again—
bam.
I slammed into the clear glass door.

“Ooh,” I moaned, holding my forehead, letting my bag slide from my shoulder. Something dripped from my fingers, and I looked down to see bright blood splotching the floor at my feet.