“My dad.” Noah’s expression grew fond. “He’s a carpenter. He still does small jobs around town. I started helping him in high school, then I decided I liked this better than sitting at a desk all day.”
“Smart. Desks are overrated.”
“What about you?” Noah asked. “When did you start drawing?”
“I’ve been doing it forever. I was that kid who doodled on the edge of every worksheet. Teachers hated it until they needed posters for something.”
“Did you draw in school?” Noah asked.
Eli’s hand slowed over the wood. “Yeah, a lot.” He did his best to keep the tremor from his voice.
“You were at Mapleford High, right?” Noah said. “I feel like I remember you a little.”
Eli’s heartbeat performed a hard jump.
“I was one of the quiet ones. You know, art club, yearbook, that kinda thing.”
“Not theater?” Noah asked. “You’ve got the vibe.”
“Theater?” Eli repeated.
“Yeah,” Noah said with a shrug. “I did stage crew, some acting. We were probably around at the same time. I graduated the year the auditorium flooded.”
“Right,” Eli said slowly. “I remember that.”
Did you ever see me drawing you?
He shook the thought off.
“I mostly hid in the art room. Less chance of being roped into pep rallies.”
“Ah, see, that’s where you went wrong,” Noah said with a smile. “Ilovedpep rallies. Free candy, loud music, and zero expectations.”
Eli snorted. “You loved pep rallies because they gave you a captive audience.”
“Also true,” Noah admitted.
It was strange, being this close to the person he’d sketched from afar, realizing how many shared spaces they’d had without ever actually colliding. It made his skin prickle with something like déjà vu.
“Do you ever draw people?” Noah asked. “Like portraits?”
Eli tightened his grip on the sanding block. “Sometimes.”
“Do you have any on your phone? I’d love to see.”
The air in the workshop shifted.
He could show him something recent. Safe. A quick sketch of Aileen, maybe. Or he could say no and sidestep the subject entirely.
Or he could tell him the truth, that he’d drawn him. Finding that sketch had brought it all back, including the fifteen-year-old feelings he’d been carrying around without realizing.
He sanded too hard and nicked a corner.
“Sorry,” he muttered, forcing a breath. “Most of my old stuff is in sketchbooks back in Boston. I didn’t bring them with me.”
“Ah, okay then, rain check.”
“Sure. Rain check.”
