5. SARAH
Sitting my ass on the grass and leaning my back against the enormous maple tree, I stare off at the water before me, also known as the Charles River. It glistens and gleams as the sun appears ready to set, but don’t let that pretty exterior fool you.
You won’t catch me jumping in that water anytime soon.
A slight breeze cascades over my arms, making me wish I had brought my jacket.
You never can keep up with the weather in New England this time of year.
I reach for my sketchbook and a charcoal pencil in my bag and place the pad against the top of my thighs, now positioned like a makeshift easel. My eyes wait for the sun to hit just the right spot over the distant buildings across the water, and when it finally does, my hand begins to move fluidly across the page in a rampant state, hoping to beat the light before it dissipates into darkness.
This is the moment that I refer to as getting in the zone.
It’s when everything around me dims into nothing more than a shadowed mist, and all I see is the image before me that I replicate on the paper.
I do this to shut off my brain when things are slightly overwhelming and uncertain, and it all begins to feel like too much.
Like when you find out you’re pregnant and have no idea who the father is, but then find out who he is and spend the next week trying to think of how you’re going to tell him. You had to use most of the available balance on your emergency credit card to order all the necessary items for a nursery because your checking account is inching closer to the negative. And on top of all that, your boss’s son plans to make your life a living hell, and you have no idea how to escape his cruel grasp.
As I mentioned…overwhelming.
“Is this seat taken?”
I let out a quiet gasp, abruptly drop my pencil and sketchbook, and slap my hand to my chest as my eyes look up at…Paul.
The man I was searching for stands before my very eyes for the second time in a matter of days as though being handed to me on a silver platter.
The world certainly has a cruel sense of humor.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He throws his hands in the air defensively, displaying an adorable yet apologetic grin.
Paul’s deep voice resonates in my mind, bringing back delicious memories of words whispered in my ears…
I internally shake my head, blinking a few times to escape my thoughts. “Sorry. Just caught me off guard.” I smile and pat the space beside me. “It’s all yours.”
He appears relieved and sits, stretching out his longer-than-life legs, making my usually long legs appear short.
“So you’re Sarah,” he says with a charming smile.
“And you’re Paul,” I add, playfully nudging the side of his arm with my shoulder. “I have to say, you were pretty smooth at our introduction.”
He laughs, dragging the palm of his large hand over his stubble. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think everyone should know we already technically met.”
My cheeks heat up as my eyes linger on his hand. His fingers are so long and thick, powerful and skilled. The memory alone of what those fingers are capable of has me clamping my thighs together, repressing the dull ache in my core.
His eyes glance over at my sketchbook, thankfully unaware of the obscene images floating across my mind. “What are you drawing?”
“Oh.” I pick it up, showing him the sunset I was in the middle of shading. It’s nothing impressive. The shadows seem a bit off, and I should have—
“You drew that? Just now?” he asks, with widened eyes.
“Well, yeah. I know the shading isn’t accurate, but I just—”
“It’s perfect.” He cuts me off, appearing mesmerized by the sketch in my hands. “May I?” He holds out his hand, and I hesitantly give him the sketchbook. His eyes look from the paper to the sunset before us. “It’s identical to the real thing. You even got the trees just right. This is amazing.” He gives it back to me, and I place it on my other side, hiding it from view, suddenly feeling self-conscious of my work.
“Thanks,” I say, twirling a piece of my hair.
“But can I ask you something?”
“Go for it.”
“Why draw a sunset with a grey pencil?”
I shrug, looking across the water. “Sometimes it’s easier to see the world in black and white. Too many colors can make things…”
“Overwhelming?” he offers as though reading my mind.
“Yeah.” I look out at the sun, which is still slowly setting. It won’t be much longer until it completely disappears, welcoming darkness.
“So, are you a professional artist?” he asks.
“Me? Oh no.” I scoff at the idea. “I wish, but unfortunately, art doesn’t pay the bills unless you’ve made it big.” I shake my head. “No, I’m a finance major. I just started an internship over at the financial district at LH United, hoping to work my way up to being a financial analyst.”
“Well, that sounds—”
“Boring,” I answer for him, knowing it’s what everyone thinks.
“I was going to say safe,” he replies, the corners of his lips tugging up.
“Safe. I guess you’re right.” I pluck a red leaf that fell from the branch above me onto my dark denim jeans. But I guess having a safe job is the only suitable option when you’ve lived a life like mine. “And what do you do?”
He looks at me curiously, his brows furrowing. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Am I supposed to?” I ask, raising a brow. “Are you offended I don’t?”
He chuckles. “No. Not at all. It’s refreshing.”
His eyes settle on me, and his smile instantly trickles warmth over every square inch of me.
The longer we stare at each other, the more I feel my cheeks redden. Pushing my hair back, I say, “Well, are you going to leave me in suspense or…”
“Right. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m a basketball player. I’ll most likely be playing in the NBA next year.”
“Basketball.” I nod, pursing my lips, not knowing a damn thing about the sport. “So I take it you’re good if you’re going into the NBA?”
He hesitates before admitting, “I’m okay.”
“Hmm,” I ponder.
“What?”
I look up at him with a teasing smile. “Just thought you would have been more of a hockey player.”
He chuckles. “Nah. I’d look like a giraffe on skates.”
“But a sexy giraffe,” I offer, stifling a laugh.
“You think so?”
“Oh, definitely.” I bite my bottom lip, tilting my head. “Let me guess. You’re the guy who puts the ball in the net.”
“How’d you know?” His lips curve up. “What, are you stalking me now?” His arm playfully bumps into mine.
“Ha. That would have been pretty hard to do when I didn’t have your name or anything to work off of. Even the bartender from that night was no help with me finding your—”
Shit.I cover my mouth with my hands. I’ve said too much.
Paul’s brows raise, and his smile widens. “Oh, so you were stalking me?”
Heat spreads from my face down my chest. I move my hands to the top of my thighs, rubbing back and forth, looking anywhere but at him. “No. Umm, I didn’t mean—”
“Sarah?”
“Yeah?” I hesitantly look up at him, biting my bottom lip.
“I’m just messing with you.”
I smack the top of his bicep, the very muscular and solid bicep, making him laugh. “Don’t do that to me. I have enough on my plate.”
He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, eyeing the water before us when he asks, “Do you ever think about that night?”
My throat goes dry as my lips part, but no words come out. Paul looks down as I look up, his beautiful, deep chocolate brown eyes locking with mine, desire flashing in them. Memories of that night unfurl in my mind as though playing on a screen in front of us, generating a guttural need between my legs.
Suddenly, all I want is to repeat that night. I want to feel his hands caress my skin, grazing over every curve. I want to hear his voice whispering sinfully delightful words in my ear. I want his lips on mine, stealing my screams as I cry out in pleasure.
I want him—all of him.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I think about—”
“Paul!” someone nearby shouts, breaking our trance. “Coach wants to see you.”
Paul looks to his side and yells, “Be right there!”
He looks back at me, pausing before saying, “Come to my game on Friday.”
“What?” I ask, surprised.
He cocks his head to the side, grinning. “Come to my game. Well, it’s not an official game, more of a scrimmage before the season officially starts, but they still treat it like a real game. And then we can get dinner after.”
“I…umm…” I momentarily look away, taken aback. Would this be considered a date? Did he just ask me out on a date?
“Please?” he adds.
His eyes pierce mine, pleading with me to say yes.
And I want to. I really do.
Not to mention, it might be the perfect time to tell him we’re having a baby.
Although, considering the circumstances, I doubt there is a perfect time for that.
I bite the inside of my cheek, mulling over the request as I glance around. But the second my eyes meet his, I know my answer. “Yeah.” A smile breaks free. “Yeah. Okay.”
His body relaxes beside mine. “Great.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, giving it to me. “Put your number in it, and I can send you the info.”
I do, typing out my full name and then handing it back to him, feeling like a schoolgirl who just got asked out for the first time.
Because technically this is my first time getting asked out.
He types out a quick message and texts my phone, so I have his number, too.
“Well, I’ll see you Friday, Sarah.”
Before I comprehend what is happening, he leans down and brushes his lips across my cheek, kissing my skin softly, sending shivers up and down my spine. He jumps up and flashes a smile before turning around and jogging toward the gym.
Is this what being on cloud nine feels like?
My hand presses against the cheek he just kissed.
I guess I’m going to his basketball game, and then—
Wait…
Basketball.
As in the same sports team that Greyson plays for.
Paul’s teammates with Greyson.
They’re probably friends.
Or maybe they’re not?
I don’t think Paul seems like the type that would fall for Greyson’s act.
But then again, most people don’t know the real Greyson.
I bend my legs and place my arms on my knees, resting my head as I watch the sun vanish.
Maybe I shouldn’t go.
But as a soft rumble reverberates throughout my stomach, I realize there’s one crucial reason I need to go no matter what.
My phone vibrates, reminding me I have an unopened text.
Gazing at the screen, my heart turns to mush.
Unknown Number
I missed those beautiful green eyes.
Guess I’m going to a basketball game, I think with a sigh.
* * *
“You’re very talented.”
“Huh?” I twist in my seat, finding my art professor, Mrs. Blossom, behind me, eyeing my easel. “Oh, I was just playing with the textures.”
“Don’t diminish your work.” She shakes her head, her red curls bouncing around her face. Pushing her glasses higher on her nose, she approaches for a closer inspection. “I asked the class to create an image of what the word family means to them. Peter has sketched a family portrait, and Shelby has painted a picture of her family’s home, but you painted a field of flowers. Why?”
I swallow nervously. I’ve never liked discussing my art with others or even showing it, for that matter.
Putting my art out there for others to judge and critique is what has stopped me from putting my art in shows in the past, even after all of the compliments I’ve received from professors over the years. Their words meant little to me when the only person I wanted to show my art to was no longer here to see it.
But after seeing Paul’s reaction—his genuine adoration for a simple sunset sketch I created, I’ve started to question my motives behind not showing my art to the world in the first place.
“I don’t know.” I put down my brush, wiping my hands across my apron.
“Yes, you do.” She smiles, her eyebrows raising, waiting for me to continue.
“Well, I guess it’s because of my mom.” I absentmindedly rub at the lily tattoo on my wrist. “Her favorite flower was the lily. My dad brought her a new bouquet almost every week.” I smile, remembering all the moments my dad walked through the front door with a fresh bouquet in his hands and a smile on his face. “She painted flowers every chance she got. She’s why I love art so much; I guess I can attribute everything to her. So when I see this flower, I see her and my dad. And in essence, I see my family.”
“And that is what we call art.” She removes her glasses, letting them dangle on a chain over her chest. “But can I ask why you created the image in black and white? Why not use color?”
It’s the second time I’ve been asked this question in a matter of days, but my answer has yet to change.
“It’s easier for me to see the world in black and white.”
Her lips purse to the side as she nods in understanding. “Well, I hope someday soon, color comes back into your life.”
I look back at my easel.
Is it so wrong to live a colorless life?
“Ah!” She reaches for something inside her apron pocket. “During winter break, there is an art show in the city featuring up-and-coming artists. I think you should consider it.” She takes out a small folded-up piece of paper and hands it to me, detailing all the information for the show.
“Oh.” I quickly scan the paper. “I’m not a real artist. I only create for fun. I’ve never sold anything or had any professional lessons.”
She looks sternly at me, placing her hand on her hip while waving the other in the air. “Is a person not an author because they’ve self-published? Is a person not a singer because they’ve only sung in front of the mirror? Is a person not a baker because they’ve only baked for friends and family?” She looks back at my work before saying, “Think about that.” And then she walks away.
Staring at the paper in my hand, I wonder if I have what it takes to be a part of something like this. My eyes glance over at the image I created.
It’s simple. Basic. Plain.
But maybe all it needs is a little color.
Hesitantly, I reach for the bottle of red acrylic paint near me and mix a few drops with the white paint on my palette.
After researching the safest paints to use while pregnant, I discovered watercolors and acrylics as options and have prioritized sitting alone in the back of the classroom next to an open window. I won’t take any chances when it comes to my baby’s safety.
Not loving the shade of pink I created, I grab the yellow bottle and let a few dollops fall into the mix—my brush swirls and twirls, combining the colors until a soft shade of orange appears.
I can work with this.
I can do this.
With shaking fingers, I lift my brush before the easel and take a deep breath.
It’s just a little color.
I shouldn’t be this scared to paint with color.
But as my hand moves closer to the canvas, I drop the brush and quickly step back, knocking the paint bottles onto the floor, red paint splattering all over my clothes.
I freeze, taking in the mess I’ve created.
It’s too much. It’s all just too goddamn much.
Sucking in my trembling bottom lip, I close my eyes, caging in the unshed tears.
I can’t do this.
My heart thuds in my chest, sadly knowing there’s more meaning behind those four words than I will ever admit aloud.