Chapter Seventeen #2
“Blair,” he says, catching my eye. It’s the first time he’s said my name to me in days, and it sends a jolt through me, warmth settling in my belly. “I’ll be fine.”
I realize I’m still clutching my tools from earlier, and I turn away, dropping them onto my table. One rolls off, clattering to the floor again, and I close my eyes briefly before retrieving it.
When I turn back, I feel Jamie’s gaze on me, as heavy as fingers grazing along my cheek.
My hands tremble as I grab the first hunk of clay, smoothing it over the armature as Deonne begins.
“Focus first on the size of the skull, but be conscious of where you’re imagining the front and back of the head as you do.
Remember last week when we constructed skulls, and how we talked about the anatomy of the head?
It is not a perfect circle. Once you have roughly the size you’re looking for, then move on to the major components—the chin, the back of the head.
Remember you’re accounting for hair too.
And unfortunately for the rest of you, Blair is the only one who has it easy there. ”
I look up, my heart thumping when I catch Jamie watching me. The corner of his mouth lifts in a tentative smile.
“Guess you can thank all my ROTC suffering,” he murmurs when I roll my table closer to him to get a better look at his jawline. His gaze slides in my direction, following me. “Since they made me cut my hair.”
I reach a foot out, turning him. I can’t handle his eyes on me right now. “Did you cry?” I try to keep my voice light, matching his. If he wants to pretend nothing’s wrong, I can do that.
“Yeah, but I waited until I was in my car after.” He doesn’t sound like he’s joking.
“Did you really?”
He exhales a laugh. “Yeah, Blair. I’d just buzzed off all my hair.”
I look up from his nape. His hair is still shorter than he’s ever worn it, a length that must be feathery soft when you run your fingers through it. But I wonder what it would feel like buzzed—like brushing your hand over velvet?
I crack my knuckles, returning my attention to my clay. “It looks good,” I say. “This length.”
Jamie clears his throat. “Do you like it better?”
My voice comes out reedy as I answer, “I haven’t really thought about it.”
Jamie doesn’t respond. I pick up my paddle, jittery with nerves, and work on smoothing over the lumpier parts where I’ve added new clay. The mass is still uneven in places, but it’s starting to take shape.
When I can’t put off taking his measurements any longer, I reach my foot out and turn Jamie toward me again.
I don’t look at him as I pick up my caliper—a measuring tool shaped like a teardrop with an opening at the wider end.
This one is as long as my forearm and looks like something I’d need for pulling out a giant’s tooth, which is why I don’t blame Jamie when he jerks back as I come at him with it.
“What the hell is that?” He holds out a hand like he can keep me away.
“I need to measure your head.”
He drops his hand, eyeing the caliper. “And you do that with a torture device?”
“Yeah, this might hurt.”
He balks. “Wait, seriously?”
I smile. “No, baby.”
I mean it like you big baby, but the way it comes out, quiet and teasing, lands so much like an endearment, it makes us both freeze.
“I—I meant—”
“I know,” he says, his voice hoarse.
My face burns. I put my foot on the base of his chair and turn him away, taking a moment to breathe.
I lift the caliper, making quick measurements of the back of his head—height and width, the base of his skull to his crown—and then do the same to my clay, making marks where I need to, adding pieces to round out the back of the head, and scraping away the excess to create depth at his nape.
When I look up, Jamie has turned himself toward me again, watching me work. His attention makes me uneasy, sparking my nerves.
“Getting precise measurements is crucial to the accuracy of the shape,” Deonne says to the room. “The shape of the head is what defines recognition. Without that, it doesn’t matter how fine your details are—it will never look like your model if you haven’t gotten the shape right.”
I pick up my caliper again, glancing at Jamie. “I’m going to measure your face now.”
Jamie shifts in his seat, eyes downcast, his voice a low murmur when he asks, “Where should I look?”
“While I’m measuring?” I fit the tool beneath his chin and to the space between his eyes.
“The whole time.”
I meet his gaze, and he holds it. One beat too long. Then two.
“Can I just look at you?” he asks, a murmur so quiet, I could’ve easily missed it under the buzz of sound in the studio. But I’m so attuned to Jamie right now that his words zip through my bloodstream like an electric current.
I swallow, dropping my eyes to the caliper. “Yeah. Okay,” I reply as I return to my clay and mark my measurements.
It’s unsettling to be watched so closely as I work.
I’m studying Jamie, taking careful stock of every curve and line of his face, and he’s studying me right back, his focus intense.
I don’t want to imagine what he sees, or what he thinks of me.
I thought he was mad at me, but whatever is happening here doesn’t feel like anger.
It feels like the precipice of something I’m too afraid to name.
“Fantasizing?” Jamie says with a half-smile, and I freeze, caught—until I realize I’ve been grooving out eye sockets with my knuckles, marking roughly where his eyes are.
I exhale a shaky laugh. “About scooping your eyes out? Maybe a little.”
I try to detach as I work, viewing Jamie as inanimate, ignoring the deep hazel of his eyes as he tracks my every move. He isn’t one of those guys unfairly blessed with long, dark lashes; his are short and light brown, like his hair. I notice for the first time that his ears are slightly pointed.
When I start working on the lower half of his face, a frisson of awareness goes through me as my focus turns to his mouth. Jamie shifts in his seat.
“Do you need a break?” Of the group, he’s the only model who hasn’t gotten up to stretch, use the bathroom, or even just take a drink of water. He’s been perfectly, utterly still.
He shakes his head, but his lips are pressed together in a tense line.
“Relax your mouth.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re just not smiling—that’s not the same as relaxing. When you smile and when you do this—whatever this is—you get these lines here”—I motion to my cheeks—“kind of like dimples.”
He touches his own face. “I do?”
I sigh, moving closer and pressing my fingers into his cheeks. “Yes. Now relax your mouth.”
His jaw goes slack, maybe from shock. His eyes are slightly wider now, and there are matching red marks on his cheeks, remnants of clay left behind by my hands.
I can’t believe I touched him. It’s like I just stuck my finger into an electrical outlet. I feel the tingles all the way to my tongue.
“We’re closing in on the end of our time,” Deonne says, the room quieting when she speaks.
“Finish what you’re working on in this moment, and then I’ll start getting these packed up for you so you can take them home and work at your leisure.
I really love what I’m seeing here tonight. You’re all doing amazing.”
When I feel her step up behind me, I move aside so she can see my work.
“Well done, Blair,” she says quietly. “I think you did a really great job with the shape. I had a feeling you’d excel here.
Portraits are all about accuracy and measurements, and I think with the miniatures you’ve done in the past, this is probably one of your natural strengths. ”
I flush, pleased. “Thank you.”
When she steps away to talk to someone else, I glance at Jamie, and he grins.
Warmth floods through me. I know it’s a small compliment that has no bearing on anything important, but at the same time, I’ve been getting so few compliments lately, I want to throw my arms around him and scream in celebration.
One small win, but it feels worth the world right now, when I am bereft of wins.
I turn my table toward him. “What do you think?”
Jamie leans forward, peering at it. “Weird.” He must see something in my face—devastation, maybe—because he backpedals. “Not bad weird! Just weird because it’s—it’s me.”
“Like looking in a mirror?” I joke, my mouth lifting in a hesitant smile.
Jamie slides off his seat with a groan that shoots straight through me. My heart beats against my ribs like an insect against a screen door.
“Close,” Jamie says, stretching his arms over his head, his shirt riding up a few inches and showing the smallest sliver of stomach.
I glance away and catch Alyssa staring. Luca covers her eyes, which swiftly devolves into an argument.
Their parents, who modeled for them, try to quietly break it up.
Oblivious, Jamie says, “Is the rest of your art here?”
I turn to him, blinking. “What?”
“I’ve never seen it at home,” he says. “I assume it’s here?”
I nod slowly. “It… is.”
“Can I see it?”
“Um, sure.” I pick up my rag and wipe off my hands, resisting the urge to do the same to the marks I left on his face. I can’t get that close to him again. “Follow me.”