That almost makes me smile. He’s persistent, but in a way that doesn’t set off alarm bells. Not pushing, just… holding the door open.
“Come on, just try it. This is Procreate,” he explains, tapping with a special pen on the screen. “Professional artists use it, but it’s pretty intuitive. YouTube has tons of tutorials.”
The app opens to reveal a blank canvas. Liam selects a brush from a menu on the side and draws a simple line across the screen. The mark appears instantly, flowing like real ink but without the mess. I get that same feeling I had at the museum, watching colors bloom under my fingers.
“Here,” he says, holding out the pen. “Just try a line. You can’t mess it up. There’s an undo button.”
I touch the pen to the screen and draw a tentative stroke. It appears like magic, smooth and perfect. It feels different from pen and paper, but in a good way. Sometimes, I feel like the paper fights the pen. But with this, the glass wants the pen to go fast and smooth. I draw another line, then another, watching how they intersect and flow together.
“You can change the brush type,” Liam says, leaning in slightly to demonstrate. His shoulder brushes mine, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. He taps through various options. “See? Pencil, ink, watercolor. Each behaves differently.”
I select a brush that mimics charcoal and make a sweeping curve across the canvas. It’s softer, with textured edges that blend and smudge.
“Woah. This is amazing.”
My mind races with possibilities. I’ve been doodling on napkins and receipts for years, never having proper supplies. Papa always said art was for people with too much time on their hands. But this? This feels like opening a door.
I lean closer to the screen as I tap around, finding a color palette and different textures. Liam adjusts the tablet so we can both see better, and I’m suddenly aware of how our arms press together, how his breath stirs the hair at my temple.
There are so many menus and options, and I have no idea what they do, so I stick with the charcoal option and the color wheel. It’s abstract at first, then something that reminds me of Spanish moss that drips from trees begins to emerge. I’m so absorbed that I don’t hear Beckett until his hand lands on my shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low near my ear. “That looks so cool.”
I glance up smiling, but that fades when I see his face.
“Don’t freak out,” he says, which is exactly what someone says right before they tell you something that will definitely make you freak out. He slides his phone onto the counter beside the iPad, screen glowing. “But these just got posted.”
The phone shows one of those glossy celebrity gossip blogs with too many ads. My stomach drops when I see the headline: “Hansen’s Mystery Muse: Hockey Star’s Artsy Date Night.” Beneath it, a series of photos from the science center. Me with my hands moving through the air at the light wall. Beckett watching. Another of him buying me those ridiculous space glasses, my smile wide and unguarded in a way I never allow myself to be.
“It doesn’t look like me,” I whisper, fingers hovering over the screen like I could somehow erase the images. The new haircut and makeup make me look so different from the ratty kid homeschooled in the trailer park.
“It’s not a big deal,” Beckett says quickly, squeezing my shoulder. “The article’s actually pretty nice. They’re just curious who you are.”
But it is a big deal. Papa will see this.
“I need to go,” I say, panic rising in my throat like bile. “I need to go home.”
“Whoa, hey,” Beckett says, his hands steadying me as I wobble on suddenly weak legs. “It’s just a few pictures. No one even knows your name.”
But they will. Someone will recognize me. They will see them and know exactly what I’m doing, who I’m with. The thought sends ice down my spine.
“I have to go.” My voice goes all squeaky. “Please. I need to go home.”
“I can drive you,” Liam offers, already reaching for his keys.
“No,” Beckett says quickly. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll drive.”
“Concussion,” Liam counters.
“I’ll call a car.”
He pulls out his phone again, tapping the screen while keeping one arm around me, as if he’s afraid I might bolt. He’s not wrong. This is a bad idea. This was all a bad idea.
“Ash?” Liam’s voice goes right through me and nails me to the spot. “Trust me. Everything’s going to be fine.”
I nod, almost believing him. Liam hands me the zippered case with the iPad in it. I hold on for dear life.
“Hey. Look at me. It’s really going to be okay.” Beckett’s eyes are so earnest, so sure, that for a second I almost believe him. “Is it really that bad? Being seen with me?”
