“He is very pretty,” Arnaud teased, and Bob glared. Taft and Chip hovered awkwardly. Taft kept shifting from foot to foot, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if he was holding himself together. He flicked glances toward the door every few seconds, as though planning to run, while Chip lingered nearby, his gaze bouncing between the others, searching for a cue on how to act.
On the other hand, Walker scowled darkly, his arms overlapping as he moved his weight away from the group, eyes narrowing in Arnaud’s direction. Was he irritated? Jealous? I couldn’t tell, but something about his tense posture—the stiffness in his shoulders, and the way his jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth—felt different. I wondered whether Arnaud’s teasing was bothering him or if something else was weighing him down. Either way, I made a mental note to check in with him later. At least no one was throwing punches this time.
Once everyone had coffee, I encouraged them to settle at their easels. “I want you to pick a light color, any color you like,” I explained, grabbing a brush to demonstrate. “Add some waterand paint me a blob right in the middle of the paper.” I swirled the brush in a cup of water, tapped off the excess, and let a soft blue puddle bloom on the page. “Nothing fancy, just a starting point.”
“A sexy blob?” Arnaud quipped, smirking as he dragged his brush across the paper in exaggerated curves.
“What kind of blob?” Taft asked, frowning in concentration as if there was a right answer.
“Any kind,” I reassured him, walking behind them and checking their work as I moved. I offered quiet encouragement, adjusting a brush grip here and nudging a water cup away from the edge there.
Then I reached Walker. His blob stood out. A soft cotton candy pink, delicate and precise.
“Nice color,” I said quietly, unsure if he’d acknowledge me. Walker’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything.
“Now,” I said, stepping back to the front of the room. “Let’s pick another color. Something different this time. Brighter, darker, whatever you like.” I grabbed another brush, dipped it in crimson, and added a second blotch to my paper, this one smaller and off to the side. “Go ahead and add your second blob somewhere else on the page. Think about how the colors work together, overlapping, blending, or sitting side by side. There’s no wrong way to do it.”
Arnaud grinned as he flicked his brush in lazy circles, muttering something about “sexy blobs” again, and Taft’s brows knitted in focus as if he were calculating the perfect placement. Chip quietly followed along, carefully measuring out his brushstrokes. When I glanced back at Walker, I noticed his hand hovering above his paint, brush poised but still. He was staring at his first pink blob.
“Just go for it,” I encouraged softly. “There’s no right answer.” Walker exhaled heavily, dipped his brush in purple,and added a second blob. It was smaller, tucked in like it didn’t want to be seen.
“Shit,” Bob muttered, and I stood behind him. “It fucking ran! It’s all mixed.”
“It’s all good,” I reassured. “See that?” I pointed to where the colors bled together. “That’s called a bloom. It’s what happens when wet paint hits a damp spot. You never quite know what you’ll get. Sometimes, the paint dances across the page, making every accident beautiful.”
“And happy,” Arnaud said with a grin, adopting a soft, soothing tone as he channeled his best Bob Ross impression. “There are no mistakes, only happy little accidents.” He exaggeratedly smiled and wiggled his fingers like he was conjuring magic. “Behold! My happy blob!” he declared dramatically.
A ripple of laughter followed. Even Taft chuckled under his breath. The tension that had clung to the room like static seemed to break, loosening the air. Walker’s scowl softened just a little, his brush moving again, slow and deliberate.
We worked through the process of waiting for the paint to dry, how the colors lightened, and how the mixing worked. I was in my element as every man listened. As I moved around the room, I stopped by Walker’s station, catching his faint scent beneath the tang of paint—something warm and earthy that made my breath hitch. He’d paused, brush hovering above his canvas, hesitating as if unsure where to place an eye on one of his abstract birds.
“Where?” he asked.
I touched his arm briefly. “Anything works,” I murmured. “Just go for it.” His shoulder tensed under my hand, but after a beat, he dipped his brush again, added a dark eye, and then glanced up at me for reassurance. “Great.” I lingered for a second longer than needed before moving on.
The conversation about adding wings took on a life of its own. Bob grumbled that wings were too fiddly, muttering about how he’d mess it up. “Birds don’t need wings if they’re grounded,” he declared firmly, like that settled it.
“Ah, c’est parce que vos oiseaux n’ont pas le courage de voler,” Arnaud shot back with a wink, flicking a feathered flourish across his canvas with dramatic flair. “Yours do not fly! But mine? Ils volent. Regardez ça!” He swept his brush through the air like a conductor, pretending his paint strokes could carry the whole room skyward.
Bob snorted. “More like they’re gonna crash and burn.”
“That’s passion.” Arnaud grinned. “Even a crash is beautiful.” He turned to me, gesturing at his chaotic creation. “Finn, tell Bob my birds are magnifique.”
“They’re definitely… energetic,” I offered diplomatically, and Arnaud cackled, clearly pleased with himself. Even Bob couldn’t hide the twitch of a smile.
Walker had lingered after the session ended, quietly helping clear the tables while the others shuffled out. I waited for him by the door, and together, we trailed the others to the coffee shop. Walker stayed quiet the whole way, with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if carrying something heavy.
“How’s everything going?” I asked when we reached the corner, my voice softer than I’d intended. Walker’s silence had been heavy the whole way, and now, watching him walk as he was, I knew something was wrong.
“Okay,” Walker said, then shook his head. “No.” He shrugged, his voice flat. “Same shit, different day.”
I hated that answer. It sounded like he’d stopped expecting things to improve. I paused, debating whether to push or let it go. “You wanna talk about it?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “I can just listen. No pressure.”
He snorted softly. “What’s there to say?”
“Maybe nothing,” I admitted. “But sometimes saying nothing out loud can help.”
He stared at the pavement like it had answers he couldn’t find, his fingers twitching restlessly inside his pocket. “I just… ” He sighed. “I’m tired. Feels like every day I’m running uphill and never getting anywhere.”
