My lips curl upward. “That’s sweet of her. I’m just glad I found inspiration again.”
I ended up earning top marks on the painting of the forest that I submitted for my midterm, and ever since that day, I’ve been painting like a mad woman. But it really had been scary there for a moment. Before Phantom.
Iris’s lips pinch together before she says, “Me too. We were all really worried about you.”
“To be honest, I was too,” I admit in a somber tone. “I was even questioning why I chose to pursue art so seriously in the first place.”
“Well, have you found the answer?”
“Almost,” I say as I finish styling my hair. “It’s frustrating, actually. It reminds me of that feeling you get when you have a specific word you’re looking for and it’s on the tip of your tongue. So close, but not quite there.”
Iris nods her understanding.
Selfishly, I’m hopeful that spending more time with Phantom, watching them paint and talking with them about their craft, will help me get to the answer eventually. It feels like it’s just barely out of my reach.
“Are we going to see you tonight, or are you going to mysteriously slip away like you have been every other night this week?” Iris asks with arched brows, tossing her purse over her shoulder. The crew has plans to see a movie at the local independent theater tonight.
“Sorry, I won’t be able to make it tonight. I’m planning on painting again, but I’ll definitely join you next time.” This lie is at least half true.
“You expect me to believe you just spent thirty minutes curling your hair so that you can paint all alone on a Friday night?” Her eyes are like x-rays, seeing right through me.
“Uh, yeah,” I say with as innocent an expression as I can muster.
“Ugh, fine. Keep your secrets, Maeve Johnson,” Iris huffs as she turns to exit the room. “I’ll get to the truth eventually.”
I smile at the thought of Iris’s confidence in her snooping abilities as Phantom and I climb the dorm’s emergency staircase to the roof. Phantom has their hands full with blankets and a thermos of hot chocolate. A cold snap is supposed to be sweeping through town this weekend, and they want to paint on the roof one last time before we fully descend into winter. When we step outside, I brace against the cold.
After laying out one of the blankets and sitting down, Phantom motions for me to join them. I do, sitting cross-legged at the center. Phantom pours us each a mug of hot chocolate and hands mine over. I take it eagerly, grateful for the warmth between my fingers.
“Phantom, I need to ask you something,” I say, my voice as shaky and unsure as I feel.
The skin above the bridge of Phantom’s nose pinches in question.
Bees swarm my stomach again, despite the deep breaths I take to try and calm myself. “Is the portrait you’ve been working on of me?”
They look away, rubbing an unsteady hand against the side of their mask. “You saw it?”
I nod.
Phantom sighs. “Yes.”
I stare at the steaming cup of cocoa between my hands, watching the vapors disappear on a breeze.
“Are you mad?” they ask quietly.
“I was,” I admit. “But I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Oh.”
My throat constricts as I ask, “Why did you choose to paint me so sad?”
“I don’t think you are.”
The scent of petrichor perfumes the air, earthy and melancholy, as I lift my face to theirs. Their thoughtful gaze is darkened by the shadow of night.
“I imagine you cry like that when you’re happy too.”
I tilt my head. “What?”
