24. Chloe
Chloe
“It’s Chlo and Colin,” I say into the speaker.
I can practically hear Wanda’s smile through the scratchy, silver box before the gate buzzes open.
This time, Colin opens the door for me, letting me go ahead and ensuring the gate latches closed behind us.
He takes my hand and leads us to the office where Wanda waits behind her desk.
“Where do you want us today?” Colin asks her as we cross the office to her, and I can’t help but just stare over at him in awe. He glances back, his cheek dimpled with a smile, and then returns his attention to Wanda as she flips through her planner.
“If you two don’t mind running the art class and lunch again, then it’s all yours.
The kids had an absolute blast with you last week.
Talked about the detective for days.” Wanda wiggles her fingers in the air and then looks between us expectantly.
Colin turns to me, a question in his eyes and a laugh on the tip of his tongue, to which I just smile and shrug, because I’m down to do whatever if it’s him and I.
We’re back out the door in a flash, and Colin is pulling me gently across the courtyard and into the art room while the sound of a small stampede from the second floor begins as the children make their way to us.
“The kiddos love painting, but if we wanted to do something else…” I walk ahead of him to the table off to the side of the room, running my finger along the edge of the smooth surface.
The table displays various art supplies: paints and brushes, construction paper and scissors, paper for collage making, a pile of blank masks for decorating, boxes of clay, and crayons in every color you could imagine.
The room is already set up for painting with easels and chairs placed around the room, but it’d be easy enough to take everything down and rearrange it.
I turn my back to the table and lean against it, assessing Colin as he surveys all the items behind me.
When his gaze clashes with mine, that storm of warmth erupts in my chest, spreading like ink in water; thick and heavy at first right in the center of my body before branches of heat snake toward my limbs, making them twitchy with need and the desire to be touched.
As if he can sense that need, he steps closer, and I let my eyes fall closed when he raises a finger to the side of my face, tracing an invisible line from my temple to my jawline. “How about you have a seat and don’t worry about class this time?”
My eyes pop open, my gaze clashing with his again as I attempt not to burst out in laughter. “You’re going to run the class?”
Colin angles his body away from me, his hand now fully cupping the side of my face, gaze bouncing between my eyes and mouth. “What? Do I not look like I’ve run a painting class before?”
I scoff, my cheek pressing into the palm of his hand before I find his stare again. “Painting my body with—”
“Miss Chloe!”
Colin takes a slow step back, tearing his heated gaze from mine as the children swarm into the class in our direction. This time, they bypass me completely and gather around Colin, asking questions about his badge and bad guys as they tug at his limbs like he’s a scientific specimen.
“Can we see your handcuffs? Have you ever used them on someone?”
I bite back my laugh, rolling my lips between my teeth as I think about the time I used his own handcuffs on him.
“Have you ever taken anyone to jail?”
“Have you ever been punched before?”
Laney runs a finger over the shiny badge clipped to his waistband as the group rapid-fires questions at him, and he fields them as they come. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
He gives me a pointed look when he takes his handcuffs out and dangles them in the air, and the children all stop and stare like they’re being hypnotized.
“Can we see your gun?”
“Alright,” I interrupt, shooing the kiddos in the direction of their seats. “Let’s make some masterpieces!”
“Yes,” Colin agrees, joining in the shooing as he herds me to a chair at the front of the class and urges me to sit.
“How do you all feel about me running the class this time?” he asks the kids once I’m seated.
I raise my eyebrows as I spin to face the kids, wanting to encourage their excitement, but it’s unnecessary because the kids are already whooping, and jumping, and yipping.
Colin manages to quiet them with a quick couple pats of his hands in the air like he’s conducting an orchestra.
He paces back and forth at the front of the class, hand squeezing his chin in thought, face turned down toward the floor. He already looks more confident than he had last time we were in this classroom together, and we’re all watching him in anticipation, hanging on his every step.
“Laney,” he finally calls, halting his pacing and turning to face us. I shift my attention to her as she stares back at him, her thick hair pulled back into a bush of brown curls that bounce with each eager nod of her head.
“What’s your favorite season?” he asks her, and her eyes light up.
It looks like she’s trying very hard to keep her butt in her chair, and I want to tell her she doesn’t have to.
Doesn’t have to restrain her excitement or dull her emotions.
She should feel it all, and feel it deeply, like she usually does.
I make a mental note to tell her later.
“Springtime,” she sings.
“Ahhh,” Colin sings back. “Why is that?”
She shrugs in response, her lips pushing out into a thoughtful, pink pout. “I like the sounds the birds make when the sun comes up.”
“Me too,” he agrees. “And how does the springtime make you feel?”
“Feel?” she parrots, tilting her head to the side and furrowing her brows. Colin only nods encouragingly, letting the silence guide her thoughts. “Happy!” she finally squeals, jumping into the air.
“Where?” Colin volleys back to her, and she doesn’t hesitate to lift her hands into the air.
“Here.” Her little pointer fingers tap her ears, and then she moves one to her mouth and pushes her lips out in a pout again. “And here, because I like to sing with the birdies.”
“That’s very sweet, Laney,” I say to her. She gives me a small smile in return, and her cheeks tinge a light pink as she finds her seat again.
“Chloe.” Colin shifts his attention to me and my heart dances from it, my own cheeks heating under his stare. “Favorite season,” he prompts me.
I sweep my gaze across the class, and all the kids are staring at me expectantly, their eyes wide and some of their mouths hung open in excitement, like my answer is on the tip of their tongues.
“Winter.” I turn my attention to the front of the room as Colin tilts his head, slipping his hands into his pockets. The movement is so natural, both comforting and demanding, and I’m desperate to please him.
“Why?” The seriousness in which he’s taking his teaching duties is both silly and heartwarming at the same time.
“I like the cold.” We hold each other’s stare, and I only vaguely hear the disagreements from the children whispering throughout the room around us, but Colin is zeroed in on me. I can’t focus on anything but the way his scrutiny lights my body up.
Truthfully, there is something I love about all seasons.
Just like Laney, I love springtime when the flowers bloom and the birds sing, when every day feels like a new beginning.
I love the hot summers and feeling the glide of the cool water against my skin when I swim.
And who doesn’t love fall? When the leaves change and the heat eases, and nature reminds you that you molt and die just so you can come back again, maybe better than before. But winter…“It makes me feel alive.”
“Where?”
I swallow, breaking eye contact before bringing my hands to my cheeks.
“Here,” I rasp, feeling the phantom sensation of my cheeks heated by the sun on a cold, December day.
“And here.” I move my hands from my cheeks and spread my fingers out, wiggling them in the air as I feel the heat from a fire against my fingertips on a dark, frigid night.
Then I turn my wiggling fingers on Jeremiah next to me, tickling his sides until the entire class has fallen into vicarious squirming and giggling.
“Alright, alright,” Colin calls, drawing our attention back to him.
“I want you to paint how your favorite season makes you feel. It doesn’t need to be something specific like a flower or a snowflake.
It can be a blend of colors, it can be shapes and lines, whatever you feel when you think about it.
” He cups his hands together in a clap and moves toward the table with the paints on it, beginning to divide the supplies and hand them out to the kids.
I attempt to help, but he stops me with a hand on my wrist and a demand to sit.
Like I’m a dog.
But fuck, I am for him. So I sit my ass down and wait until he delivers my items, and then I turn my attention to my canvas while he settles into his seat in front of me.
I try to stay focused on the goal, but his presence in my peripheral distracts me.
I let out a soft chuckle when I think about his suggestion that the painting could just be a blend of colors.
It’s a great idea, and I’m sure it will result in a lot of beautiful art, but I’m also sure he wanted to save himself from having to paint something realistic like that sad panda of his.
He lifts his eyes from his work every now and then to study the kids in the room.
Catching my stare, he gives me a smile with an easy pull of his lips and a lift of his brow, and then returns his focus to whatever he’s painting.
I wonder what his favorite season is and how it makes him feel, and I force myself to paint my feelings onto the white, scratchy surface in front of me.