I laugh. “You’re right. I don’t. But I will figure it out, and I’ll make it happen. We’re going to have a good time.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling. “I’d love to go on whatever you come up with.”
Chapter 16 Lily
The elevator dings and the doors open, and we’re on the roof of a building downtown.
There are string lights set up around a long table with 2 easels and candles everywhere. I pause before I step out, looking at him as he holds my hand, grinning like a child.
What has he got planned for me?
He squeezes my hand and takes a step forward, encouraging me to come out of the elevator with him. My brain is running a marathon, trying to figure out what’s going on.
He walks me to the table. The canvases aren’t side by side. They’re facing each other.
Various shades of brown and yellow and red, like a sunset, fill the palettes. I look at him, grinning but confused.
“I thought we could paint,” he says, and my heart flips.
“What are we going to paint?” I ask.
He runs his hand down my arm, and it makes me tremble.
“Each other.”
I start giggling, thinking of all the videos I’ve seen of partners and friends doing terrible paintings of each other. This is going to be so much fun.
He walks me to one end of the table and pulls out my chair. “Do you need an apron, ma’am?” he asks, holding one up.
It has my name on it.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Sure.”
I stand in front of him as he slips it over my head, then turns me around and ties it in the back. We haven’t been this close in a while, and there’s a comfort in him being behind me, like he’s protecting me from the world.
“All right. You’re set.”
He goes to his side, puts on his apron, and sits down.
“Don’t mess me up,” I say. “You better get my curls right.”
“Did you know, ma’am, I’m an artist as well? I will capture all of your beauty and your entire essence.”
I break into laughter. I’ve never seen this man draw, paint, color, anything. They say all he does is bounce a ball. All he knows is basketball. I’m excited and also terrified to see what he creates.
I sit down and start a light sketch of his face, pausing to look up at him. He’s completely focused, holding his paintbrush, but also staring at me. Not like he wants me, but like he’s trying to understand something. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
It’s been ten minutes, and he hasn’t said a word. He’s moving his brush slowly, carefully.
And I haven’t painted a thing.
So I take a deep breath and get started. But every time I look up, he’s staring at me, and it makes me feel something.
“You doing all right over there?” he asks.
I clear my throat and nod, because I can’t even speak, then get back to my painting.
More and more, I get anxious to see what he’s working on. I clean my brush to change colors.
