She furrows her eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Then don't let him take that away from you,” I say softly, like I'm breathing out the words.
She stares at me with an indescribable look in those stunning blue eyes. What I said probably wasn't the right thing, but I don't know what else to say. We haven't actually spoken properly about her father since her mother divulged what he did.
I hate her father; I've never met the man, but after what I heard, of course, I hate him.
He cheated, beat his wife, and left his family behind. That's not a man, that's a coward who deserves hell raised on him. She shouldn't stop doing something because it reminds her of him. She shouldn't let him taint her memories.
While I wait for her to respond, she does something unexpected…she smiles. It’s lopsided and full of humility, like she wants to hide that she's smiling at something I've said.
Suddenly, I feel like my head is spinning and my legs are wobbly.
“This is the longest time we've gone without fighting, you know?” She changes the subject, her gaze going back and forth from the drawing to me.
This is her way of thanking me for what I've said without really thanking me. So naturally, I will play along with it. “I know, someone should check.”
“Check what?”
“If hell has frozen over.”
She bites the inside of her cheek and I can see her holding back a giggle. I just smirk in response as she shakes her head.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Stop. Stop it.
My brain chants the message back and forth to my heart, trying to stop the ferocity of the beating that is damaging my chest right now.
She bites her lip and I find myself digging my nails into my thigh in response.
“I'm done,” she says. I quirk my eyebrows, confused, until she speaks again. “Done drawing you,” she clarifies.
“Already?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them and I feel heat rising to my cheeks.
Why do I sound disappointed?
I ignore the smug and almost shy look on her face and clear my throat. “Can I see it?”
“Yeah, come here.”
Immediately, I stand up and walk toward her. As I walk to where she is, I'm engulfed with the scent of vanilla and acrylic paint and I don't despise it, not even for one second.
I ignore how close I'm standing next to her and direct my gaze to the canvas…I'm speechless.
It should be familiar—It's me after all, sitting on the exact same chair and wearing the exact same uniform. Every speck of detail is pronounced and dauntingly accurate. She's even drawn the goose bumps on my arms.
This is someone else, someone ethereal and raw.
I didn't know art could be so real, like looking at a picture—no, that doesn't do it justice. I knew Juliette was talented—that's obvious—but having that talent directed at me? It’s incredible.
I take a deep, shaky breath. “Juliette this is—”
“Yes, I know, it's a work in progress—”
“What? Are you blind?” I say breathlessly, my eyes still on the painting. “This is perfect. The detail in this is impeccable. You are so fucking talented. This is beautiful.”
I feel her eyes boring into my side, but I don't look her way, not while this painting has enraptured me in every sense of the word.
