Chapter 11 Kira
KIRA
The Burrow Bitches
Ariadne: What are you going to create for your application?
Kira: Ugh. I have no idea.
Britney: i’ll be your muse. paint me!
Macey: She needs to submit more than just paintings, Brit
Britney: even better. draw me like one of your french girls, bitch
The blank canvas stared at me. Taunting. Flaunting. Insert any other adjective to describe the situation—hell, I wasn’t a writer.
Apparently, I wasn’t much of an artist either, considering I couldn’t figure out what to paint.
At what point in the creative process did the creative actually know what they were doing?
When I was young, I could paint without thinking.
It didn’t matter what I was painting. All that mattered was putting color to paper.
Now, with the pressure of judgment, I knew that it mattered very much what I painted. Identity. How could I paint something that represented my identity when I wasn’t sure I liked who I was?
The tarp crinkled under my feet as I fetched a glass of water. I wasn’t sure why I bothered with the preventative measures, given everything in our apartment was secondhand, but paint was a bitch to clean.
Any hope of muscle memory coming in to help me paint disappeared. A shame, considering my muscle memory in other parts of my life had proven its strength recently.
Landon: I’ll be there in a minute.
Before Landon returned, I never knew what to do with the muscle memory gained by loving him.
As much as I didn’t want to believe it, that kind of love never disappeared. Not really. For years, it sat simmering beneath the surface, like a pot about to boil over.
I guzzled the water and refocused on my tasks. Over the last few weeks, I had been nervous every time I saw Landon, afraid of getting hurt or doing something that betrayed my former self.
But now, that feeling, that liquid giddiness that texting him always gave me, stuck. Through the chilly nights and boring spreadsheet-filled days, it fizzed and bubbled. I felt greedy for more of that feeling. For more of him.
When the knock on the door came, I smoothed my hair down and answered it.
Landon stood, cool and collected as usual, holding a tray of to-go cups in his hands.
His dark curls were slightly tousled like he’d just run his fingers through them, and he dressed like he was going to an expensive gym, with gray sweatpants and the coziest-looking sweatshirt.
“I brought caffeine,” he announced proudly.
“Thank you.” I accepted the cup, making space for him to come inside. “Sorry it’s a bit of a mess in here.”
Landon slowly looked across the apartment—the tarp-covered living room decked in painting gear, the tiny dining room with fresh flowers, and the kitchen that featured garlands of tiny pumpkins—like he tried to digest every piece of it. Attempting to memorize every detail.
“It’s perfect,” he said after a second. “Is Macey here too? She’s your roommate, right?”
“She is my roommate, but she’s not here. Off doing her travel blogger duties somewhere across the city.”
“Damn.” He set down an extra cup, which had escaped me earlier. “I was hoping free coffee might smooth things over.”
“Ah. She told me about her interaction with you at the gas station.”
On the way home from a summer-long road trip with Noah, Macey ran into Landon at a gas station close to Chicago.
She described the scene as “tenser than you guys playing drunk Jenga.” Macey had been the first to find out Landon was moving back to Chicago, and I was thankful the universe gave me the warning.
Not that this was an event I could have prepared for.
“Oh, right.” Landon scratched his head. “I was actually referring to the voicemail.”
I took a sip from the cup. Chai. He didn’t forget. “Voicemail?”
He quirked a brow. “The day after I left Chicago, she left a five-minute-long voicemail cussing me out and threatening to chop off my balls if I ever came back.” He paused. “Fortunately, she never came to collect on that promise.”
A wave of affection for Macey swarmed me. She never told me that.
I shivered, and the motion caught Landon’s eye.
He looked me up and down. Then did it again.
It made me feel examined and flushed. Because it wasn’t a subtle or respectful perusal, and the heat of his gaze reminded me of hot moments.
He’d looked at me exactly like this before we made love for the first time.
Before he stripped me out of my clothes and took me to bed.
Remembering that night made my nipples tighten, and I crossed my arms over my chest to hide that. I should’ve worn a bra.
“That’s my shirt,” he said.
“What?”
“The shirt you’re wearing is mine.”
Horrified, I glanced down at the navy blue Chicago Bears T-shirt. While faded, it was long enough to cover my butt. My go-to painting shirt. Something comfortable that I wasn’t afraid to get covered in paint.
“So?” I covered up my embarrassment with defensiveness.
Was that pink covering Landon’s cheeks? “It just took me by surprise. I didn’t realize you kept it.”
You and me both.
“It’s a shirt I don’t mind getting paint on,” I breathed. “Don’t think too much of it.”
He nodded, a flash of disappointment on his face. “Noted.”
It was like I could hear my mother chastising me in my head and reminding me to stay polite. “I appreciate the tea.”
“Of course. I thought it might help us with getting your first piece for the application done.”
“Well, I need all the help I can get.”
Landon sat on the couch as I got comfortable on the floor. I knew it was a weird position, but I’d always painted like this. Knees tucked under me, paintbrushes and colors spread all around.
“What are you painting?”
I glanced up at him. “I have no idea.”
He took a sip of his coffee cup. “Want to bounce ideas off me?”
“Okay, ideas.” I sighed deeply, racking the deepest parts of my brain. “Well, I like books, so I was thinking of painting a library. Or baking…maybe those mini muffins Macey likes so much.”
I was still debating other options when Landon said, “Those are all things that you like. They’re not so much part of your identity.”
“Things you like can be part of your identity,” I grumbled as he gave me that look. The I-know-you’re-smarter-than-this look.
I wasn’t dumb. I could practically recite the textbook definition of identity. Your personality, values, beliefs, culture, experience—all those things made up identity, not mini muffins.
“Okay, fine, forget the library. What do you recommend?”
“I don’t know. Can we paint your tendency to overthink?”
I threw a paintbrush at him. “It’s not my fault that our society overthinks and under feels.”
“Well, what do you feel now?”
“I feel…lost.” A pause. “Scared to start.”
He nodded. “I got the same way when I picked up baseball in high school. I’m generally afraid of making a fool of myself.”
“But you’re great at sports.”
“And you’re great at art. Sometimes we’re most afraid of the things we’re good at. The things we love. Because if we pursue them, they could change our lives.”
“Do you even play baseball anymore?”
He looked down, suddenly shy. “No. I quit pursuing things I loved.” He glanced at me. “Until recently.”
My fingers tightened around the paintbrush, my chest tightening too, like the air had thickened between us.
“I remember Mason used to always be the loudest parent at all of your games.”
Landon smiled softly. “Yeah. Dad never missed one, even if it meant coming after working all night at the diner.”
“For what it’s worth, I think he’d be proud of you. Helping your mom reopen the diner.”
“Maybe.” Landon cleared his throat like he was shaking something off. “I like to think he’d be proud of the person I’m becoming. But this isn’t about me. I have an idea.”
He shifted closer, settling beside me on the tarp and pulling a box of mismatched paints toward us. He set up a makeshift easel, his movements sure and unhurried like he’d done this a hundred times before. Then, without a word, he grabbed a spare canvas and propped it up in front of him.
I narrowed my eyes. “What are you doing?”
Landon’s gaze flicked up, and something in his expression sent warmth unfurling in my chest. His eyes sparkled with playful mischief, and in this element, surrounded by art, hands dusted with dried paint, he looked like someone I knew. Someone familiar. Comfortable. Confident. Mine.
“What’s the most important thing to do before a kickball game?” he asked.
I smirked. “Sneak a kiss behind the bleachers.”
He huffed out a laugh. “The other most important thing.”
“Warm up.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “Correct. That’s what we’re going to do.”
I frowned, confused. “You want me to run laps around my apartment?”
Landon rolled his eyes. “No, Picasso, I want you to warm up by painting something silly. Something without any pressure.” He dipped his brush into a random color. “I’ll join you.”
I hesitated, fingers hovering over the paintbrushes. “But what do I paint?”
Landon pressed a finger to his lips. “No questions. No thinking. Just painting.”
He leaned over his own canvas, paintbrush thick with yellow paint. I glanced at my empty canvas and considered playing a game I always did when I started a new piece.
It involved assessing the entirety of the canvas, imagining the final image, and visualizing the layers needed to get there. Then I would consider composition, mood, and colors. Once I had the roadmap, I knew where to start.
Perhaps I didn’t need a roadmap for this, though.
Don’t think, Kira.
Challenging advice for a girl who overthought everything, but I’d give it a shot.
My shirt was the color navy, so I started with blue. After a few brushstrokes, I turned toward Landon, trying to peek at what he was painting. Probably a kickball.
“No peeking!” He blocked my vantage point with his arm, focused on his canvas.