Where’s Connor? He’s always in the room first. Sometimes I wonder if he secretly sleeps here because seriously—he’salwayshere. When he breezes in a few seconds later with a giant smile on his handsome face, I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him enter the space from the hall. The thoughts that run through my head come very close to melting me into a puddle of sentimental goo. Phrases likewow, a person reallycanlight up a room, andthere’s my guybubble up totally unbidden. It’s cute and gross and really worrying, given Connor has no idea who I really am.
“Billie.” He approaches, ducking to brush the briefest kiss on my lips. “Looking adorable as ever.”
His unusually good mood leaves me in a state of shock. It’s like I’m frozen in place as he drops his backpack on a nearby desk and unzips it. “Hello to you, too,” I finally manage once I find my voice.
He grins. “We’re going to create somerealart today, so I hope you’re ready.”
“Real art?” I don’t try to hide my skepticism. What does he mean by “real art”? The past week I’ve spent blobbing watercolor paint on thick paper has proved to us both that I’m not exactly brimming with natural talent. I can admit to feeling more than a little disappointed that Mom’s considerable artistic gifts didn’t get passed down genetically. It would have been nice to make something I could be proud of—thatshecould be proud of.
Stupid, I scold myself. What’s she going to do, display my latest masterpiece on the communal fridge at the rehab center?
Maybe Connor won’t care that I don’t have any real talent in this area. Maybe he’s so enamored of me, my lack of artistic skills won’t matter to him. Fingers crossed.
“Yes. We’re going to sketch croquis of each other. You ever done those?” He raises his brows.
I slowly shake my head. It sounds like he said croakee, which seriously … WTF. It’s like he’s speaking a foreign language, which I’m guessing he is, but anyway. “Um, no. I have no idea what that is.”
“They’re also sometimes called gesture drawings. Here, sit down.” He points at a chair, and I do as he says. “Give me aminute and we’ll get started.”
He sets us both up with three sharpened art pencils and spiral notebooks of lightweight drawing paper, then settles into a chair across from mine.
“What are we supposed to do?”
“We draw each other for a minute at a time.” He gestures to the sand timer sitting on the table between us. “Your pencil should never really leave the paper, and you shouldn’t look down at what you’re sketching, either.”
“I’m not supposed to look at it?” My voice squeaks becauseyikes. The potential for this sketch to be awful is high enough, but I can’t even look at my paper? Forget it.
This is going to be terrible.
Connor shakes his head, his mouth quirked up on one side. He appears amused by my panic. “When the minute is up, we share what we’ve done so far. Then we flip the timer and do it all over again.”
“For how long?” My palms are starting to sweat.
“Until we’re finished. Or until we run out of paper. Or as long as we like, really.” He shrugs.
“So … once?” I ask hopefully. “I’m sure there are other, more interesting things we can be doing here. In this room where we’re the only occupants. With a door that locks.”
“Belinda Winters, you are scandalous.” His droll tone makes me smile. “Okay, go!”
He flips the sand timer with a quick flick of his fingers and starts sketching while I sit here like an idiot. His eyes never leave my face, even as his hand moves in swift, smooth movements.
“Billie, start sketching. Time’s running out.”
Again, I do as he says, keeping my gaze locked on him as I draw a circle on the paper that’s supposed to be his head. He’s watching me, too, his eyes narrowed and lips pressed together while his hand flies across the paper.
I cheat and check my sketch, wincing when I see the mess I’m making. It’s obvious I’m not an artist. Not even close.
“Time’s up,” Connor announces, flipping his sketch pad in my direction. It’s a rough but passable outline of the shape of my face and hair, without any real details. Still, looking at it feels a bit like staring into a fogged mirror; I know my face is there, just hidden.
I show him my sketch, and he tries and fails to contain a bemused smile. “Nice.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Let’s keep going.” He flips the sand timer to restart, and off we go.
I try to infuse a little more artistic talent into my sketch this time around, but I fear I’ll look down to find an even more unholy mess than my first attempt. When the next minute is up and we share what we’ve done, Connor laughs so hard at my feeble attempt that he actually slides off his stool and has to hang on to the table for support.
Meanwhile, my jaw hangs open in unabashed awe at his sketch.
