“Are those thorns or boils?” A strangled laugh escapes her.
I flip to a new page. “Let’s draw something simpler.”
This time, I try a geometric design composed of straight lines and circles. It’s a safe approach. Or so I think. By the time I finish, the lines are more like squiggles, and the circles resemble ink stains.
Laura leans over my shoulder. “You’re really embracing abstract art, aren’t you? Very avant-garde.”
“I hate this challenge.” I drop the pencil.
She grins and snatches the book. “Let me try.”
I’m all too happy to surrender the spotlight. Laura takes the pencil and starts sketching. Her strokes are quick, confident, and precise. Within seconds, a delicate bracelet design beginsto emerge, complete with intricate loops and tiny motifs. The bracelet is sitting on the wrist of a nicely drawn arm.
If this design is representative of her skill, then she has no reason to be self-conscious about her hobby.
“It’s sublime,” I say. “If you were going for the kill, then congrats, I’m dead.”
“Hey, I’m helping you!” She moves the book toward me. “Try to draw the tattoo around this. Keep it as simple and abstract as you want.”
Hmm. Is this sincere?“You’re setting me up to fail.”
“I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself, dummy.”
I shoot her another doubtful look.
She pats my hand. “Come on, Antoine, you can do it. I believe in you!”
I don’t enjoy failure and public humiliation any more than the next overachiever. That being said, I’m no quitter. With a reluctant sigh, I take the pencil and attempt a vine-like design to complement her bracelet. It still looks amateurish, but much better than my first two disasters. When I’m done, I hand the sketchbook back to Laura, bracing for critique.
She studies my drawing. “Not bad at all! This part’s a little weird”—she points to a section of the vine—“but I can work with it.”
I feel a flicker of pride.
Laura picks up the pencil and starts retouching our joint design. The tip of her tongue sticks out in the cutest way possible. Alain’s camera moves closer, much too close. This would normally bother her, but she’s too busy beautifying our collaborative art to even notice.
I watch her work.
What if the viewers decide the result is still shit?
It’s possible.
But I don’t care.
For someone as competitive as I am, this is a first.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ANTOINE
The poolside is decorated with soft lights strung from palm trees, their glow reflecting off the water. A live band plays pop hits. The newlywed couples mingle over cocktails and finger foods. It’s all very festive and only moderately contrived.
I’m clad in ripped skinny jeans that are cut low enough to make me feel exposed. The black shirt I’m wearing untucked over the jeans is an abomination with rhinestones that spell out RENEGADE.
I wonder if it was Pedro or some other MESS agent that picked this outfit for me. Whoever it was, they must’ve had a good laugh forcing an Evorian peer to dress like a Casanova from the wrong side of the tracks in Marseilles.
Perhaps I’m reading too much into their intentions.
My wardrobe is simply optimized to fit the archetype that makes Laura tick. By the way, I better act like I think I’m cool, or else she might see through my subterfuge. My “better half” is far from stupid.
