“Did you?”
I sigh and glance down at the crayon vomit I somehow thought would make good art. The silence that follows is excruciating.
I didn’t have some “sophisticated” concept for the piece. I’ve never done mixed media, and I already feel behind in this class, so I just wanted to get something done.
I don’t have to attempt brillianceallthe time, do I?
Apparently, Dorien would say, “Yes. Yes, you do.” He never does a half-assed art piece.
Dorien is staring at my disaster and I’m waiting for the criticism. The smirk. The cutting remark asking if I was drunk when I attempted it.
“The texture’s interesting,” he says finally.
I scoff. “Uh-huh. And what else?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. You’re being weird.”
His mouth quirks. “I’m trying this new thing where I don’t insult my collaborator before we’ve even started working together. Revolutionary, isn’t it?”
“You’re an ass, so just do that and be normal.”
“Give me ten minutes. I’m sure you’ll provoke it out of me.”
I shouldn’t smile at that. And I definitely shouldn’t feel the knot in my chest loosen slightly, but it does anyway. Why is he so much more irritating than I remember? It’s like he’stryingto make me forget why I’m supposed to keep my distance, make me think maybe we could just be normal with each other. Then I remember and everything feels worse somehow.
“Whatever,” I say, pulling my piece closer and examining it with fresh eyes. “How do we blend a pretentious mirror sculpture with, well, this mess I created?”
His eye roll makes me feel a bit better because I’m way more comfortable with Dorien the Jerk, the one with walls and snappy comebacks that make mewantto stay away. “First of all,” hesays, “it’s not pretentious. It’s insightful. And second, I wouldn’t call yours a mess.”
“Trash? It’s probably just trash.”
He smiles and I like that smile too much. Note to self: stop making Dorien smile.
“It looks like you were working through something and ran out of time,” he says, his voice is matter of fact. Just an observation. “The color palette is aggressive, but it’s cohesive. The crayons and glue add dimension that straight paint wouldn’t.”
I don’t know what to do with Dorien being genuinely analytical instead of mocking. It throws me off balance, so I focus on our assignment instead.
“How do you want to do this? We could deconstruct both pieces,” I say. “Pull apart the wire skeleton, cut up the canvas. Use elements from each to build something new.”
“Or we keep certain parts intact. Your canvas could be the foundation. My wire form could…” He grabs his sketchbook and makes a rough drawing.
The more he draws, the more I frown. I actually like his idea.
“Here,” he says, turning the sketch toward me. “My wire can bend around, even pierce your canvas. It turns the canvas 3D, using both the back and the front.” He’s leaning forward now, his hands moving as he talks, sketching invisible shapes in the air. “We can create a conversation between the flat and the dimensional.”
I watch his hands because I can’t help it. They’re sculptor’s hands, strong and capable, with calluses on the fingers. Thick fingers.
I’ve never held his hand and now I’m wondering what those sturdy, commanding hands would feel like wrapped around mine.
I shut that thought down so fast it leaves skid marks.
“Okay,” I say. “Um…” I lift my canvas and flip it over. “I think if I heat the crayon, I could work some of the color through the holes the wire creates. I think there should be color bleeding onto the back.”
He grins. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that could work.”
Stop grinning.I don’t like his grin because everything about him is more handsome.
