Everything started out cute and playful. I thought we were going to have sex, but then he asked to paint me, and though that’s the last thing I expected, I was game. I’m still game. The thought of it is not only extremely fucking sexy, but deep too, like we’ll be sharing something that means a lot to him. Like he’ll be showing me myself through his eyes, and I’ve never in my life wanted to see what someone else sees when they look at me the way I do with Miles.
But now…things don’t seem right. He’s all over the place. I feel the anxiety rolling off him in waves, nearly drowning me in the riptides, and all I want is to fix it, to make it better for him. To ease whatever’s always troubling him. I don’t think anyone has ever tried to soothe him that way. Most people make their assumptions about him and move on. They’ve all decided who Miles is because of the prank that caused the fire at Sigma Alpha and left Alpha Theta Mu’s former president hospitalized. Of course I wish he hadn’t done it, but we’ve never really heard his side of what was clearly an accident. Maybe, like there’s more to Miles than we know, there’s more to this than we know too. I want to talk to him about my mom, to share every single thing I can with him, so Miles can get to know me and I can hopefully get to know more about him as well.
“She had the world’s best laugh,” I say, not sure why that came out first. It’s something I haven’t talked about in a long time—my mom’s laugh, the way it would fill a person up with joy. Miles is not looking my way, not even at the canvas anymore, but like he’s lost in his head.Where are you, Miles Tanner?“It was impossible not to laugh when she did. Just the sound would make you happy, no matter what your mood had been.”
“You got that from her, then?”
At first, I think it must be a joke, but Miles isn’t smiling. He’s studying the canvas now, and with such intensity, it feels like the thing has magical powers, like somehow by watching it and listening to me he’ll know exactly what to paint.
“I…don’t know. No one has ever told me I have her laugh before.” I like the thought of it, though, of putting people in a good mood with my joy.
“You don’t think yours does the same to people? Don’t you see the way they flock to you? The way you draw attention just by entering a room?” He shakes his head, looks at me, then away. “Tell me something else.”
“She was my best friend—well, her and my brother, but it was different with Cedric because he and my dad are so close. Making our father proud is the most important thing to Cedric, and molding Cedric to follow in his footsteps is the most important thing to my father. With my mom, though…she used to call me her sunshine.”
“So it is yellow,” he says.
I have no idea what that means, but I decide not to interrupt whatever is happening and simply continue. “Every night she would ask me what my favorite thing about my day had been. She made the best orange-cranberry muffins you’ll ever eat—but those had nothing on her cookies. It doesn’t even matter what kind. She could make anything, and I loved being in the kitchenwith her. Loved baking with her while she would dance around and sing into the spatula.”
“Do you bake her muffins or cookies now?”
“I’ve tried. They’re never as good as hers.”
“I bet they are, but you just don’t see it because you miss her so much. You want it to be her desserts you’re eating.”
That makes a lot of sense and is actually really fucking deep. Who is this Miles, so different from what I originally thought about him? “It feels obvious now that you say that.”
“What else did you like to do with her?” he asks, dipping the brush into the paint, then swiping across the canvas.
I can’t see what he’s painting because the angle isn’t right, and I’m so damn curious, want to see what he’s creating, what he’s so completely lost in, as I come to terms with the fact that each word I tell him creates a picture of me that makes it easier for Miles to paint me.
“What kind of nurse did she want to be?”
“Pediatrics. She loved kids. She would have been great with them. But like I said, Dad was weird about her working. To him, she was there to cook, clean, raise the kids, and make him look good.” It’s wild to me that people feel that way, that they can have those kinds of expectations of women.
“But she liked it? Staying home?”
“She did. At least, I think she did. She loved being a mom. It’s one of those things you could tell just by talking to her for five seconds. It was impossible not to feel loved by her.”
My father…now that was a different story. At least when it comes to me.
“She had the best singing voice. I loved it when she sang to me, which she always did when I got hurt. She never killed bugs. Not even spiders. She always took them outside and set them free.” It’s like now that he’s opened the floor to talk about my mom, I don’t know how to stop. The words keep coming, spillingout of me in a rush of longing and a need to show Miles what’s inside me. “I don’t understand how she stayed with my father. They were so different.”
“Probably because of you and your brother. She must’ve thought it was best.”
Yeah, probably, but… “He made her feel lonely. I didn’t get it when I was a kid, but now I look back and see it. She was so lonely, but she never showed it. She focused all her attention on me and Cedric, but honestly, it ended up being me a lot because of his relationship with our father.”
He doesn’t ask anything else, seeming lost in what he’s doing, and for a moment I get lost in him—the way his brows pinch together in concentration, the way he bleeds emotion when he paints, and I want to understand each and every thing he feels. He’s so fucking sexy—his face, his body, all his movements—but this moment isn’t about how hot he is; it’s aboutMiles. The real Miles. I’m showing him myself and, even if unaware, he’s reciprocating.
“Were you close…with your mom?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers simply.
“Will you tell me about her sometime?”
“Not right now. I can’t.”
“That’s okay. I’ll keep telling you about mine.”
