My wrist aches from the pressure, each movement harder than it needs to be, my breaths coming fast like I’m chasing something I can’t quite catch.
It’s not beautiful. It’s loud, uncomfortable, and ugly.
Jay says nothing at first, and somehow that makes me more aware of him because of the stillness beside me, but I can almost feel his eyes tracing the movement of my hand. The one that’s laid out truths and lies and deceit and pain all onto a slice of canvas for him to see. I tell myself I’m not painting for him, but it’s a lie. Part of me wants him to see this mess and still stay exactly where he is.
I keep going until my arm slows on its own, and I’m left staring at the chaos I’ve made, knowing that all of this has been living inside of me, cursing me, stopping me, making me second-guess everything I do.
Dragging that darkness out hurts in a way that feels sharp and physical, but seeing it bleeding across the canvas is… freeing. A relief I didn’t even realize I’d been starving for.
I haven’t painted in years. Somewhere along the way, I lost the love of it, forgot how to enjoy it. Then life got messy. My parents’ divorce, my mother chasing men around the globe, my father always too busy, so I ran off to college to disappear. To hide. But Washington had nothing for me except more heartache.
This, though… this feels like a homecoming. And I think I might be allowed to want it all again.
Chapter twenty-six
Jay
I’veseenpeopleintheir element before. Athletes mid-play. Couples in love. Other artists chasing the thing they can’t put into words. I capture those moments in an eternal snapshot of pictures. But watching Liv paint isn’t like that. It’s so much more instinctual, real and awe-inspiring. I’m not sure if I’d ever be able to capture the essence of her, but I damn well want to try.
Watching her paint is the most interesting and beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed.
Her shoulders are relaxed now, the tension that lived in her every move earlier slowly slipping away. There’s paint smudged on her hand, near her knuckles, and I want to know how she’d react if I reached out and touched it. If she’d pull away or let me feel the roughness of it against my skin.
But I don’t touch her.
I focus on the canvas—bold, messy, unapologetic—then back to her. And I realize I’m not looking at the painting for answers. I’m looking at her. She is a living, breathing emotion of what she’s just created.
A tear falls from her eye, and something deep inside me demands that I catch it. As evidence of what’s happening right now? I don’t know, but the need to soothe her feels like it’s an ache in my bones.
I take a slow step toward her, not to spook the moment or make her feel trapped, and carefully raise my hand to her face, letting the tiny drop of liquid caress my thumb. Her head turns to me then, her blue eyes shining in the dim light.
“I-I… I don’t, I’m sorry,” she finally settles on, sniffing, and it draws my brow tight.
“Why are you sorry?”
“For crying, for making a mess?” The slump in her posture makes me want to pull her close to me to give her something back that she’s lost.
“Liv, that wasn’t a mess,” I start, then quickly realize that’s not what she needs to hear, “youare not a mess, you… you’re”—all the words rushing through my mind aren’t enough for what she is and what I’ve just seen from her—“…you’re exquisite,” I finish quietly, because it’s the only word that even comes close. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to let someone see what’s under the surface?”
Her gaze flicks back to the painting, then to me, as though she’s trying to see it through my eyes.
“It’s not perfect,” she begins. “It’s messy and dark.”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “That’s what makes it beautiful. You didn’t try to make it perfect. You just… let it out. That’s—” I shake my head, unable to finish without sounding like I’m lying in awe at her feet. Except I am, and she deserves to know that. “Beautiful.”
For a long moment, we just stand there in the faded light, the air between us humming with something both of us have been ignoring for a while now. My hand is still at her cheek, and I letmy thumb brush once more along the path her tear left behind, committing the feel of her skin to memory.
“Can I try something?” I ask finally, and she nods immediately, eyes flaring.
I reach for the aquamarine, adding white until it softens into a blue that feels endless, the exact shade of sky when you stand on a beach and look past the horizon.
When I turn back, she’s watching me like she’s not sure whether to be curious or cautious. I hold her gaze. “Do you… have a top on under that?”
Her brows lift, but her voice stays even. “Sports bra.”
I take a breath, making sure my tone stays steady. “Would you trust me enough to take your shirt off?”
“Had no idea that you needed me naked so badly,” she jokes, but I’m not about to let her hide behind that humor.
