Chapter 4
My head is swimming. The painting before me might as well be glowing with its dual tones, bold shapes, and expert brush strokes. It’s complex, dynamic, and contradictory.
It’s me.
A grin splits my face in half as I release a breathy laugh.
It takes me a moment to notice the sun is setting.
I jump off my stool, realizing it must be past five o’clock.
Shit, I’m late for dinner. Rushing over to the utility sinks, I quickly rinse my brushes and palette.
The painting still has to dry, so I can’t take it home yet.
Frustrated, I return it to the dark prison that is the storage cabinet and silently promise the canvas that I’ll be back for it first thing in the morning.
I collect my backpack and grab my phone. Instinctively, my thumb moves to cancel out the livestream until my gaze snags on a comment in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. A comment the likes of which I’ve never seen on my page before: Stunning.
One word.
A word that sends my whole world tilting. My legs turn to putty and nearly fail me. I feel my eyes shedding thick, hot tears before I can even register the emotion behind them.
Someone watched. Someone saw.
User4372957382. Stunning. Me.
I stare and stare and stare at the word, laughing—or am I sobbing—like I haven’t in years. The laughter comes from deep within my belly, leaving a painful cramp in my side. One compliment from a stranger might not seem like much to most, but to me, it moves mountains.
Regaining my senses, I take a screenshot of the comment and cancel out the livestream.
I wince at the realization that I have no idea who might’ve seen me freaking out just now, but I can’t really bring myself to care.
With shaking hands, I text the screenshot to Noah with a million happy face emojis, before dashing from the room.
The autumn-sweet air is cool against my face, but I barely notice as I run home.
Stinging blisters form on my heels in no time.
Flimsy canvas sneakers are simply not made for running, but I keep pace, barely registering the pain.
I feel high as dopamine explodes through my brain like my own personal fireworks show.
My lungs heave as I cry out into the night, whooping and hollering until my throat burns.
I crash through the front door when I get home. Immediately, Dad rounds the corner into the foyer, his brow puckered with angry wrinkles. He’s a second away from giving me a piece of his mind when he takes in my tear-stained cheeks and manic grin.
His anger melts into concern, brow smoothing out. “What happened?” he asks.
“My—I—” I stutter, trying to find the right words, trying to catch my breath. “My painting. It’s stunning.”
Dad’s concern fades to confusion. “What?”
“Someone called my painting stunning. Someone online. They liked it. They—” I cut myself off before I can finish that statement. They like me.
“That’s wonderful,” he exclaims before trapping me in a bear hug. It’s like being wrapped in a warm, weighted, sandalwood-scented blanket. I relish it.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs against the crown of my head.
Fresh tears well in my eyes, heat leaking into the back of my throat.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He grips me tighter before releasing me. Behind us, Everly comes bounding in through the hallway, curls bouncing in rhythm with her steps. “Sissy!” she screams.
I pick her up and spin her around in circles like a carnival ride.
She laughs, begging for more, more, more.
Mom joins us moments later, beaming at the happy scene before her.
For once, I’m completely present in the moment and I don’t even have a paintbrush in my hand.
I’m standing with them in life, instead of struggling to keep up from behind.
Dad tells Mom my good news, and she hugs me too.
I try to remember a recent time I’ve felt this happy, and after a moment, I realize I can’t.
Noah’s ecstatic when he texts me back after baseball practice.
He video-calls and we talk for hours. We make a game out of trying to guess what type of person User4372957382 is.
I think they’re the type of person who would identify with the conflict in the painting.
Someone who feels stuck or unseen, like me.
Noah thinks they’re the critical type, acknowledging my mastery of the different techniques I utilized to create the piece.
Maybe we’re both right, or both wrong. I may never know.
I just hope that, whatever compelled them to leave that comment, it was because the piece made them feel something real.
“I’m so happy for you, M,” Noah says, his drowsy voice slightly hoarse. His plaid navy comforter is tucked under his chin and his eyes keep drifting closed. I’m keeping him up too late.
“It’s past your bedtime,” I remind him softly, reluctantly.
“Worth it.” The warmth radiating from the smile on his face bleeds into his voice, making me giddy. A sudden rush of lightheadedness coaxes my own weary eyes closed.
“You’re the best. You know that, right?” I whisper into the darkness behind my eyelids. “I don’t deserve it.”
“You’re wrong. You deserve it, and more.”
“You’re my favorite person.”
“You’re my favorite person.”
We sit in silence, listening to each other’s deep, even breaths.
“Go to sleep,” I whisper again, finally opening my eyes to peer at the image of him on my phone screen. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
His light eyes bore into mine, voice dropping low. “I’d sleep better with you in my arms.”
Images of Noah’s bare chest and wandering hands invade my mind’s eye, and I bite my lip to fight off a grin as my stomach does eager somersaults. “Ditto.”
“Goodnight,” he whispers sweetly—so, so sweetly.
I ache for more. More of this. More of him. But after a long moment, I relent. “Night,” I whisper back.
The video-call cuts out and I roll onto my back, staring up at the popcorn ceiling I’d sloppily covered with bundles of thick white fluff to look like clouds.
I wasn’t raised in a religious family, so I don’t really believe in gods or saints or angels, but for the first time in my life, I pray anyway.
I pray for life to keep feeling like this.
Present and connected. Like I’m a part of something bigger.
So, if there’s a price to pay for my wish to come true, I’ll pay it. Please.
Just let this happiness stay.