“Actually…Liam is having something delivered,” he says, thumbing a gesture at the sculpt on the table. “I’m trying to fix her left nostril so it looks at least related to her right, and it’s driving me insane.”
I laugh. I don’t know Hopper that well, but I doubt sane has ever been his sweet spot.
“Can’t have that, now can we?” I ask, walking up to the piece I’ve been working on.
I can’t tell if it’s being in Hopper’s presence or the fact that I’m finally using materials that are really, really good quality, butit feels like my skills have improved by leaps and bounds in the last several weeks.
Hopper steps in behind me, quiet as a cat burglar. It used to throw me off, but I’ve become used to his stealthy ways, and now I barely even startle at his unexpected pop-ups.
“Think you’ll finish that today?” he asks, swaying with his hands clasped behind his back.
I take in the piece again. I had been planning on completing it in the next couple of sessions, but the violent image contrasts with the sweeter thoughts in my head.
Maverick, insistent and soft. Powerful and queerly beautiful. Eager but strong on boundaries.
Perfect.
“No, actually, I was…inspired today. I kind of want to paint in a different direction, just to see if I can.”
“Oh? What inspired you?”
Rune Maverick Bash.
“A guy I like,” I admit with a smile.
Hopper narrows his eyes. “Look, I don’t wanna seem judgmental, but is this going to be another one of your violent paintings?”
“God, no,” I answer immediately, shaking my head. “The opposite, actually.”
“Thank goodness,” he says, hand to his chest. Rocking back and forth, he continues talking, almost as if to himself. “If I thought you were violent with an intimate partner, you and I would be having a very different conversation right now.”
“Oh no, no, no,” I say, vehement as I hold up my hands. “I was raised by a good man, who was good to my mom, and I can’t imagine ever treating a loved one like that.”
“Whew,” Hopper says on a heavy exhale. His attention drifts back to his table. “Yeah, I need to go fix this nostril before it drives me insane.”
I laugh and grab a new canvas.
I don’t think I’ll ever bother with an initial sketch ever again. Something about Hopper’s energy encourages me to just let the paint take me where I need to go. Even when it’s not my best work, the bones of the painting come together quickly, and I find that I can make corrections on the fly or simply go with the flow.
I grin. Happy little accidents.
Even though the two humans probably couldn’t be more opposite, there is something a little Bob Rossian in the way Hopper approaches his art, and I’m better for having absorbed that.
Letting my encounter with Maverick change the direction of my painting today is something I would also attribute to Hopper, even as I apply the layering technique I learned with my more disturbing subjects.
I take a smoke break out in the garden while the first layer dries. Maverick and I exchange texts, and my mouth goes dry at the picture he sends over. I felt this yesterday but couldn’t put words to it: his sex appeal, even his ethereal beauty are secondary to who he is inside.
His soul.
Blech. I am so pathetic.
I don’t mind being pathetic for him.
I’ve been interested in men before, of course. Might’ve gotten my heart involved a time or two, but never once would I have described myself as pathetic. Certainly not with this stupid grin on my face.
Hopper sits with me, enjoying the silence of the garden. I want to tell him about Maverick. I want to tell him about me. I’m tempted to walk to the edge of the diving board and blurt out the truth.
I’m as terrified of his reaction as I am aware that I’m running out of time to tell him—because at some point, all of this not-telling will seem like a lie.
