And I don’t hate it. The opposite, in fact. Every time he hugs me or holds my hand or plays with my hair, I want him to keep doing it. I’m drawn to his touch, Icraveit, my stomach clenching in anticipation every time his skin touches mine.
I’m confusing myself. I know I am. My desire to be close to him and my fear that I’m not ready for more are constantly at odds, but when my hand is in his, it just feelsright. There’s no other way to explain it. Hell, simply existing in the same space as him, regardless of whether we’re touching or not, calms my spirit and steadies my heartbeat. It’s easy and effortless. It’s where I’m supposed to be.
On Friday night, we hole up in his room, both of us trying to catch up on schoolwork before we pick our film for the night. Wes is bent over his desk, working diligently on his senior project, while I sit on his bed with my computer open on my lap. We work for a while in silence, though eventually I sense his eyes on me from across the room.
I check the time before glancing up, surprised that we’ve gone a full thirty minutes with uninterrupted silence. It might be a new record for Wes. “Yes?”
“Whatcha workin’ on?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.
“My Color Theory project.”
His brows shoot up. “Ooh. Can I get a sneak peek?”
I think about it for a second. Weeks ago, I was steadfast against showing Wes my design work, but now I kind ofwanthim to see it. To know another facet of me and what little talent I possess. So I wave him over, and his face alights with the kind of blinding smile that rivals the sun.
He dives across the bed in a motion that nearly sends me and my laptop flying off the mattress, before pulling himself up toa seated position beside me. I blink at him. “Wow. How much coffee have you had today?”
He snickers, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “What can I say? I’m excited. I’ve seen the master at work, but never the master’s actual work.”
“It’s not done yet,” I warn, but turn my laptop screen to face him. I show him my file, forcing myself to watch his face. At first, his expression remains serious as his eyes scan over the design, but then his mouth breaks into a slow grin.
“You made that?” he asks, and I nod, nerves twinging my stomach. “Ivy. It’s beautiful. You’re, like, insanely talented.”
“It’s a take on stained glass to demonstrate simultaneous contrast and the relativity of color,” I explain. He blinks, and I laugh at his blank expression, trying to find a better way to explain my project. “How warm, cool, dark, or light a color looks isn’t just about the color itself. It depends a lot on the colors surrounding it. Simultaneous contrast is what happens when two side-by-side colors mess with each other and change how we perceive them.”
Wes nods, his eyes going a little squinty. “I think I understand…”
“Here, let me show you an example.” I point to two of the blue shards of “glass” on my screen. "These two blues are exactly the same color, but because of the colors surrounding each of them, they look way different.”
Wes’s head cocks to the side, his eyes narrowing further. “I’m not calling you a liar, per se, but those blues do not look the same, Ives.”
Using my track pad, I drag both shards off the art board, so they’re next to each other. As soon as they’re free of the other colors in my design, it’s clear as day that they’re the same.
“Holy shit,” Wes says, his face inches from the screen. “My whole life is a lie now.”
“It’s pretty trippy.”
“That’s insane.” He leans back, shaking his head. “Do the pinks now.” I drag two of the pink shards off the art board the same way I did the blues, proving to Wes that they were the same color all along. Wes stares at my computer in disbelief. “How did I never know about this?”
“The same way I never knew about—what do you call it? Biomarkers in disease pathology?”
He smirks. “Well, that one’s to be expected. Can I see more of your work?”
This time I barely hesitate. “Sure. If you want to.”
I spend the next half hour showing Wes more of my art. I take him through the other two projects I’ve done for Color Theory so far and the pencil sketches I did in Drawing 101 first semester. Then, I show him my high school portfolio—the work that got me into Stratus.
As I explain the thought process around each piece, he listens with rapt attention. He asks questions about the mediums and techniques I used and how I felt about the finished work. He seems genuinely fascinated, sincerely impressed, and it’s such a drastic change from what I’m used to that it’s difficult to wrap my head around. My family always treated my art like a frivolous hobby. Like a waste of time. Like anyone could do it if they had nothing better to do.
But Wes…Wes takes the computer in his lap and studies each piece with the thoroughness and care exhibited only by my art teachers. His eyes roam the artwork, soaking in every brushstroke or pencil scratch or vector line depending on the medium.
“I had no idea you were this skilled,” he says, his voice soft and almost reverent. “It’s really incredible.”
“I’m okay,” I say with a shrug.
“You’re too modest.” He nudges my shoulder with his. “Can I have one?”
At first, I think he’s kidding. But when his face remains intent, my brows rise up. “You want one of my art projects?”
