24. Chloe #2
Wanda pops her head into the room at one point, silently alerting me and Colin that she’s starting to settle the mothers into their lunch-hour class. A while later, Colin rises from his spot and wanders around the room, quietly chatting with the kids about what they painted and why.
My skin buzzes when he disappears behind me, and I slowly start to hear his voice come into focus as he moves from one kiddo to the next. I finally feel the heat of him at my back, and I straighten to feel the brush of his chest on my shoulder blades.
“Tell me about it.” His demand is quiet, his words sounding captivated. I reach a hand out to my canvas, ghosting my fingertips across the drying paint, smearing strips of dark paint into light.
Most of the painting is some sort of blend of dark and light. The center of the canvas is a blurry circle of yellow and gold, grey and black surrounding it like a shadow, and then the edges spread out into silver and white.
“It’s like looking into a window,” I tell him.
“It’s warm inside. And quiet. The only light is from the candles.
” I bend my neck to glance back at him, and he nods at me to go on.
I turn back to the canvas and trace my fingers from the center of the canvas to the dark shadow surrounding it.
“It’s black in the corners of your vision, because your eyes haven’t adjusted to the contrast. To the darkness.
” I swallow, my fingers moving absently from the black to the edges of silver and white that expand into the corners.
“But behind you, it’s so bright. It’s snowing, and the moon is shining on the soft, white floor.
” Clearing my throat, I pull my hand back into my lap, rubbing the smudges of paint between my fingers.
“It’s jarring. Scary, maybe. But…cozy, and safe. ”
He's silent behind me, and all I can feel is the push and pull of his chest against my back as he breathes and studies the canvas. Studies me. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears, even though the children are bustling around the room and taking in each other’s pictures.
“You know?” I finally ask.
His response is so quiet that I almost miss it when he says, “Yeah.”
“Come see mine,” he says, louder this time, nudging me with his shoulder to follow.
I turn to Jeremiah before I go, the oldest kid in the group, empowering him with the responsibility of getting everyone set up for lunch in the courtyard. The kids skitter out through the door in a sea of noise and delight.
The nerves jitter in the pit of my stomach and the tips of my toes as I turn back to Colin and follow the few feet to his canvas. He brings his hand to my shoulder as I stand in front of him and take in his painting, the skin of his fingers tracing a path of warmth against my collarbone.
I have to admit, Colin is much better at abstract art than he is at realism.
His painting is an explosion of colors, with outlines of darkness tracing every bright shade on the canvas.
The sky blue is lined with a deep navy, the pastel lilac that reminds me of Easter is shaded with a dark, royal purple.
The colors wave and swirl across the surface in a blurry, sunset like pattern from top to bottom.
Colin reaches around me and slides a finger across the uppermost edge of the canvas, the black paint like a night sky dotted with stars.
“It’s the cold of dawn,” he says. My body shivers in response like I can feel the exact chill of the morning he’s speaking of.
Before the sun rises. Before the birds wake up and before the last stars are gone. “Vast. Unknown.”
His trail continues down the canvas, through the varying colors of bright and dark.
“It’s a comfortable day,” he whispers almost absently, his finger hitching on the yellow and gold bands of color.
“The absolute perfect weather,” he says behind me, his voice brightening, and I can’t help but smile at the feel of what he describes.
“The type of weather that makes you feel free. Like you could do anything and succeed. Like the world belongs to you.”
My heart tugs at the sound of his words, at how lost in his art he became.
His hand continues moving toward the bottom of the canvas, to the orange and red that fades into swirls of black and blue again.
He moves his lips to the edge of my ear.
“It’s the ocean,” he whispers. My stomach tightens, and I could almost let my eyes fall completely closed and let him lull me into a guided meditation over the sea.
“Full of life. Full of mystery. Both deep and shallow. Cold and warm.”
My eyes prickle with emotion, the flood of feelings continuing toward the organ in my chest and dropping between my thighs.
Colin is letting me into his mind. Into his thoughts and soul.
Something he’s refused to do until now. We’ve teetered the line; I’ve tried to force my way over and he’s forcibly pushed me back to my side.
He didn’t want to see that we belong on the same side.
But here it is, the line between us dissipating in front of my eyes.
He moves his hand slowly, curling around the side of my neck in a hungry and possessive movement until his fingers are pressed under my chin and lifting it into the air.
“What season is it?” I whisper.
The silence seems to stretch and expand between us as he lowers his lips to my face again, his mouth caressing the skin of my heated cheek when he says, “It’s you.”