9. Aurora
AURORA
The only time my brain ever really shuts up is when I’m painting.
When I’ve got paint on my fingers and a page in front of me, everything else goes a little quieter.
I drag the brush along the edge of her mouth, then soften it with a dry brush, pressing my lips together as I tilt my head and study the painting.
Not right. Close, but not right. I reach for another brush and mix a paler gray, adding the faintest highlight to the waterline until her eyes finally look glossy enough to make it seem like tears are building up.
Most people here are into abstract stuff, but realism has always been my thing.
I like how exact it is, how one tiny change can throw the whole expression off.
Too much shadow, and she looks angry instead of hurt.
Too little, and she looks flat. But when it clicks, when a face finally looks real enough to breathe, there’s nothing better.
The first time I went to a museum, I was eight, and I stood in front of one painting for so long my mom finally had to come pull me away.
I don’t remember the title, but I still remember the painting.
It was of a woman in a dark green silk dress standing at the top of a staircase, one hand on the banister.
The light caught the edge of her collarbone and one pearl earring, and the whole thing looked so real I remember wanting to touch the canvas just to prove it wasn’t.
Ever since then, I’ve known I wanted to evoke the same emotions.
“What’s it called?”
I blink and glance over my shoulder.
Professor May is standing behind me, sleeves shoved up to her elbows, tattooed arms crossed over her chest.
She tips her chin toward the canvas. “Every great piece needs a name. Especially one as beautifully emotional as this.”
I look back at the painting and swallow, my eyes drifting over the woman staring out the window, her eyes fixed on the little girl with her hands tangled in her father’s hair as he carries her on his shoulders.
“I… don’t know yet,” I admit.
She hums and steps closer, studying it in silence for a moment.
“This is really good,” she says, her hand landing on my shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. “I love what you did with the reflection. She’s facing the window, but we still get everything she’s feeling.” She nods, giving me a smile. “Really nice work, Aurora.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, dragging the end of the brush across my palm.
She tilts her head slightly, studying the painting again before glancing at me. “Have you thought of submitting it for the showcase?”
My brows shoot up. “I… don’t know,” I tell her.
She presses her lips together, examining me. “I think you should,” she says. “Worst case, it doesn’t get picked—though I really doubt that will happen. Best case, you make people feel something with this piece.”
My gaze drifts back to the canvas, my stomach fluttering at the idea of someone actually looking at it, relating to it.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her.
Professor May smiles. “Good. Do that. Then submit it anyway.”
A laugh slips out of me as she heads across the studio.
A chair scrapes against the floor, pulling my attention away from the canvas just in time to see Jake swing a leg over the chair backward and drop into it, his arms folding over the backrest.
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. “Miss me?”
I roll my eyes because class wouldn’t be complete without him planting himself in my space and annoying me. Jake Harper has way too much energy, and somehow his hair still looks stupidly good even though it’s almost three in the afternoon.
“Not even a little,” I murmur, turning my attention back to my painting.
He laughs under his breath, drumming his fingers against the back of the chair. “Thought you looked like you could use a distraction.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest. “And here I was thinking we had something special.”
I lift my eyes to his. “Jake, you’ve flirted with half the girls in this class.”
His lips lift into a grin. “That’s because I was waiting for you to be single.” He leans back in the chair. “And now that you are…”
My brush stills on the canvas, because this isn’t the first time since breaking up with Chase that I’ve been hit on.
Apparently getting publicly cheated on means every guy on campus thinks there’s an opening now.
Like I didn’t already humiliate myself enough in that hallway.
I can still see the way everyone stared at me, the way their eyes went straight to the broken bottle in my hand.
Two weeks later and people still haven’t shut up about it.
“If you heard what happened, then why are you over here?” I glance at him, my mouth flattening. “Pretty sure everyone’s already decided I’ve gone full psycho.”
He shrugs, the corner of his lips twitching. “I like girls with bite.”
I scoff. “You wouldn’t survive me.”
He chuckles, drumming his fingers once against the back of the chair before he tips his head toward my painting. “That’s cool,” he says. “I’m bored out of my mind, though. Aren’t we supposed to be drawing nudes by now?”
I glance over at him, one eyebrow lifting. “You just want an excuse to draw boobs.”
He shoots me a wink, completely shameless. “Would rather see them.”
I let out a breath through my nose and look back at the page. “Is that your idea of flirting?”
“Want me to switch tactics?” he says, tilting his head. “I could ask if you’re coming to the bar later. I never see you out anymore.”
I used to love going out. Getting dressed up, getting drunk with my friends, laughing too loud, staying out too late. It used to be easy. Fun.
Now, even thinking about walking into a crowded bar makes something in my stomach tighten, because all I can picture is somebody glancing at me and whispering.
And I’m sick of feeling like the entertainment.
So I’ve been staying home instead, which, all things considered, hasn’t been the worst thing in the world. Isabella and Maisie usually end up with their boyfriends anyway, and their boyfriends are almost always around Cole, which is reason enough to keep my ass on the couch.
Plus, I accidentally got invested in a reality show. It’s cheesy, addictive, and completely ridiculous, but there’s something weirdly comforting about watching strangers make terrible decisions on television. Makes me feel almost normal.
I’m saved from having to answer when Professor May finally calls time.
I exhale and start packing up, more grateful than I probably should be for the excuse not to deal with the hopeful look on Jake’s face.
I slide my brushes into their case, zip up my bag, shove my sketchbook inside, but he stays right where he is, still sprawled backward in the chair like he’s got nowhere better to be.
“You know,” he says, leaning farther over the backrest as I sling my bag onto my shoulder, “you didn’t actually say no.”
I glance at him and let out a sigh. “Maybe,” I say, adjusting the strap. “That’s the best you’re getting.”
Jake grins and shoots me a wink. “See you tonight.”
He pushes off the chair and heads for the door, already smiling at some girl by the sink before he’s even halfway across the room.
I huff out a laugh and shake my head as I zip up my bag. Jake Harper would flirt with a brick wall if it looked at him long enough, and he’s not even remotely my type.
Still.
Maybe going out tonight won’t be the worst thing in the world.
Especially because my brain won’t shut up about what happened at the club.
About his hands on my hips, his quiet groans when I shifted my hips over him.
And then the look he gave me in the shop when his hands were on my thighs, like he could see straight through me and every thought I was trying not to have.
I shouldn’t be thinking about any of it.
But apparently my brain didn’t get that memo.
I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and head for the door, but my phone buzzes before I make it two steps. I pull it out, expecting maybe Isabella or Maisie, and my stomach drops when I see an unknown number on the screen.
Unknown:
Babe, please unblock me. We can work through this.
I stop walking, staring at the text until I feel my body tense. I scroll up and block that number too.
That makes five.
Five different numbers, all of them from him borrowing his idiot friend’s phone since I blocked his ass the moment I got home.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and pick up my pace.
Yeah. I’m going out after all.
I’m not letting Chase control my life anymore. I need a drink, some fun, and to get out of my own head for a few hours.