Dipping the brush into the water, I mixed red, black, and yellow until the shade warmed into a soft brown. I leaned in, brush hovering over Bodhi’s cheek, then froze.
“You’re not allergic to face paint, are you?”
He shrugged, which was not at all reassuring. My brows knit together. “So... is that a yes or a no?”
“Dunno,” he said. “Never had it done before.”
“What?” I squawked, making him jolt. “You never had your face painted as a kid?”
Bodhi shook his head. “Nah. My mom was too busy with work, so we never went to carnivals or anything.”
My chest pinched at that, but I forced myself to stay focused. He’d agreed. He trusted me. Probably unwisely, but still.
“Okay,” I said softly, and finally brought the brush to his skin.
Then I began to paint.
For a while, we sat in silence. Something was definitely coming together on his skin. It wasn’t exactly what I’d pictured in my head, but I wasn’t displeased with it either.
“What does your mum do for work?” I asked, rinsing the brush until the water turned cloudy.
“She volunteers in a library,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere near my shoulder.
“That’s cool.” I switched to green, loading my brush. “What about your dad?”
“Don’t know him. He left when I was a baby.”
“That’s shit,” I said simply. “What an asshole.”
Bodhi shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “Never really bothered me. I was fine with just my mom.”
“Did you grow up in LA?” I asked as I dabbed green along the line of his jaw.
“Nah.” He fell quiet long enough that I assumed he wouldn’t elaborate, until he added, “I grew up in New York. Brooklyn.”
“I’ve only been to Manhattan,” I said, briefly remembering performing at the NYC Center with the Royal. “It was cool. Busy, but cool.”
“Brooklyn’s a, uh... different vibe from the island.”
“Must be expensive to live in the city,” I mused, dragging the brush carefully over his cheek. “London’s a ball ache unless you’ve got a roommate or a decent job.”
“That’s where you’re from?” he asked.
I glanced up, surprised by the question and the curiosity in his blue-eyed stare. Until now, our dynamic had basically beenme chattering and him throwing out the occasional reluctant syllable. This was the first time he’d asked something aboutme.
“Yeah,” I said. “Born and raised.”
“Cool.” He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze again. “What about your parents?”
“What do you mean?” My fingers tightened around the brush before I could stop them.
“Are they, um . . . around?”
I mixed a few shades of pink, keeping my eyes on the palette. “They’re alive,” I said. “Wouldn’t really say they’re around, though.”
“You’re not close with your family?”
“My brother’s okay, but he’s busy becoming a doctor. My parents could do without me bothering them.” I shrugged, adding quietly, “The feeling’s mutual.”
