They fell quiet again, and the only sounds were the scrape of sandpaper, the low hum of the heater, and the occasionalthunkof wood.
Eli straightened and winced. Noah noticed, of course.
“Time for a break. Want some water?”
“Please,” Eli said.
Noah grabbed two bottles from a crate by the wall and tossed one. Eli caught it one-handed.
“Nice reflexes.”
“I played exactly one season of JV basketball,” Eli told him. “I was terrible. But Ididlearn how not to get hit in the face.”
“A valuable life skill.”
They drank in companionable silence, perched on stools by the workbench. The heater clicked and hummed. Outside, the snow had thickened, turning the world beyond the window into a white blur.
“It’s getting bad out there,” Eli said quietly.
“Yeah. The storm came in quicker than they said it would.”
Eli glanced at him. “Does that worry you?”
He grinned. “Nah, we’re Mainers. We’re built for this.”
“Speak for yourself,” Eli said. “I’m a Bostonian now. I panic when the T is five minutes late.”
Noah laughed, then sobered. “Look. if it gets too bad, you can crash on my couch.”
Eli choked. “What?”
“Instead of driving back in a whiteout,” Noah said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “My place is ten minutes from here. No point risking it if the roads are awful.”
“Oh,” Eli said. “Right. That makes sense.”
His imagination, which needed to stop all unsupervised activity with immediate effect, supplied an image of him on Noah’s couch, wrapped in a huge blanket, the house smelling like sawdust and cocoa.
Eli didnotneed that.
“It might not get that bad,” Noah added quickly. “But the option’s there.”
“Okay, but I managed to walk here, so getting back shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Thanks, though.”
Their eyes met for a heartbeat.
Then, as if remembering he was supposed to be Normal and Fine, Noah clapped his hands. “Ready for paint?”
“Are we qualified for that?” Eli asked.
“No, but the committee is busy, so we’ll wing it.”
An hour later, the market stall front had a base coat of cream-colored paint and the archway frame was halfway to looking like something out of a storybook. They worked side by side, their sleeves pushed up, their brushes moving in steady strokes.
“You’re good at this.” Eli watched Noah outline the curve of the faux window.
Noah shrugged. “It’s just wood and paint. You’re the artist.”
“You’re building the canvas.”
