I take a seat in her desk chair, mirror her desktop to the large screen at the front of class, and place the document in presentation mode. The moment Penelope flicks off the lights,the entire room goes silent. Students settle into their seats, eager for every word that leaves her mouth—just as I am.
Today she’s lecturing on how Pompeii influenced the way modern archeologists understand ancient art, since the ash from the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius preserved so much of Pompeii that, when uncovered thousands of years later, much of the architecture and art was nearly untouched.
The PowerPoint showcases photos from a summer that Penelope spent in Italy with a research group, analyzing mosaics recovered from Pompeii. Images of her at the still-active dig sites—taken by Carter, no doubt—are accompanied by photos of her in the lab, restoring the pieces they discovered in the field. As she describes the experience, she talks through her theories on what each piece of art represented at its time, who may have created it, and where it could’ve belonged.
I’m so enthralled by her speech that by the time she finishes, I’m practically buzzing to get back to school full-time. Penelope’s focus is set on archaeology, and the way art shapes human history, while mine is on how art shapes the human soul. Though, the foundation of both is similar—the interpretation of art and how the same piece can be seen and studied in endless ways, for eternity. I want to channel creativity like that into something that soothes people, multitudes of healing they can carry, repurpose, and reevaluate throughout the duration of their life.
As the class comes to a close and students filter out the door, I shut down the presentation and click off Penelope’s monitor. “That was incredible. I never knew you spent time in Pompeii like that.”
“It was a crazy time.” She smiles to herself, packing her things into her briefcase. “The first few years Carter and I were together—while I was in the full-time graduate program at UCLA—we were both constantly on the go. He came with me asmuch as he could, developing his contracts around my travel, but it was a tumultuous time. I wouldn’t have wanted to do it with anyone else, though.” She checks a notification on her phone before tossing it into her bag and lifting her gaze to me. “Oh, I forgot something I printed and need to take home with me. It’s in the copy room upstairs. Can you go check?”
“Sure.” I meander out of the lecture hall and up to the second floor where the copy room is located. After spending what feels like half an hour searching every printer, counter space, trash can, and crevice of the room, I can’t find any document that appears to be left by Penelope—and she doesn’t answer her phone when I call.
Defeated, I return to the room to let her know I couldn’t find what she’s looking for, but I’m struck speechless when I push open the classroom door and find the room dimmed, lit only by dozens of flickering faux candles.
My breath catches in my throat as I freeze—Weston is leaned back against Penelope’s desk, bracing his arms against the wood with his legs crossed at the ankles. He smiles at me when his eyes greedily soak in my body—my reaction.
He looks delectable in a pair of dark-wash jeans, sneakers, and a black tee that hugs his biceps. His dark hair is mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it.
It’s a struggle to pull my gaze from him, but as I glance around the room, I take note of more than just the candles. There is a blanket laid out in the center of the room with a basket at its center, and in the corner are two easels set up with blank canvases, and paint littered atop a table beside them.
“What’s this?” I ask.
He smirks. “Thought we could paint together.”
A giggle bursts from my throat, and I clamp a hand over it, dumbfounded. I can’t respond, can’t move. I only stare at himin awe. No one I’ve dated has ever expressed interest in painting with me before, let alone gone to such lengths to make it happen.
I have a whole room upstairs in my parents’ house filled with art supplies. We could’ve easily painted there together, and it would’ve required very little effort on Weston’s part, but he did all of this.
“None of that.” He tsks. “If I make you laugh, I want to see your pretty face light up.” He presses off Penelope’s desk, bounding up the stairs that lead toward the top of the lecture hall, extending his arm when he reaches me.
I remove my hand from my mouth, taking his as he leads me to the front of the room. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to say anything, Wills, but I hope you like it.”
“I love it,” I say on an astonished breath. “This is...” I’m at a loss for words, blurting the only question that comes to mind. “Where is Penelope?”
He laughs. “She helped me set up and then she left. We’ll lock up behind ourselves.” When we reach the blanket on the floor, Weston motions for me to sit. He plops down across from me, crossing his legs and pulling the basket in front of him, flipping it open. “Figured we can eat first, and then you’ll teach me how to paint something, I’ll do a terrible job, but you’ll lie and say it’s great.” He bites his lip, grinning when I laugh. “And if I’m lucky, maybe you’ll kiss me a little when we’re done.”
“You don’t have to do all this for me to kiss you, Wes.” I shake my head, laughing again. “I’m probably more desperate for it than you are at this point.”
“I like to earn it.” He winks, pulling two wrapped sandwiches out of the basket and handing one to me. “Italian grinder—no tomato. Your mom said they’re your favorite.”
He asked my mom about my favorite sandwiches.
He then takes out two Tupperware containers, popping the lids. “I made a cucumber watermelon salad and roastedsweet potatoes. I also brought dill pickle spears because Darby mentioned you like those with sandwiches. And...” He reaches behind himself, drags a backpack from underneath the table, and unzips it before reaching inside. “Your dad said these were your favorite too. Asked your mom about the sandwiches when I picked them up from her.”
He sets a wrapped bouquet of sunflowers between us.
He asked my dad about my favorite flowers.
“Wes, my God,” I gasp, gathering them into my hands. “They’re beautiful.”
“He said they follow the sun, so I imagine they’ll always be pointing in your direction.”
I lift my eyes, his hopeful gaze clashing with my astounded one. Gently placing the flowers on the blanket beside me, I crawl over him, throwing my arms around his neck and forcing him flat on his back as I align our bodies and press my lips to his.
“Nobody has ever done something like this for me,” I whisper between the kisses I pepper across his cheeks and jaw.
