Chapter 12
I’ve only been at Lizbeth for half a week, but already, trying to keep up with coursework, social media, old store orders, and my newly booming social life feels like swimming against a too-strong current.
One minute I’m gaining an inch, and the next I’m losing a mile.
I’m exhausted and floundering. But I’m not alone.
Everywhere I look students are floundering.
Emmy covers the dark circles beneath her eyes with layers of concealer, and Iris nurses a full-blown caffeine addiction with at least three iced lattes a day.
And, to be honest, I have no idea how Franco or Zayne are faring.
I haven’t had an opportunity to ask them.
Every time I’ve seen them at lunch this week, their noses have been in a book or turned toward their phones, making small talk utterly pointless.
“I’m exhausted,” I complain to the others at our usual lunch table. The dark, ominous clouds hovering above us look liable to weep at any moment. Shivering, I pull my rain jacket tighter around me.
After swallowing a mouth full of food, Franco murmurs, “Get used to it.”
“Yeah, just accept the fact that you won’t be sleeping again until Thanksgiving break,” Iris chimes in over her burrito bowl. I’m grateful she’s moved past her ‘hazing the new girl’ phase.
“I wouldn’t have expected an art school to push their students so hard,” I say.
“Have you been living under a rock?” Zayne remarks snidely.
Emmy chides, “Rude.”
“I’m just saying it’s a problem within our society as a whole. This university doesn’t exist in a vacuum. We’re a capitalistic society, remember? So, we value productivity and commerce above all else. If you’re not grinding to the bone, you’re worthless. Period.”
Unease churns my stomach, annihilating my appetite. As I set my veggie wrap down, I reply, “I guess I’ve never really thought about it like that.”
Zayne nods but doesn’t respond. He’s tired too.
After a few beats of uneasy silence, I ask, “Hey, Zayne, can I ask a favor?”
He shrugs, meeting my gaze with bloodshot eyes. “Depends on what it is.”
“I want to do a collaboration. For social media.”
He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table. “What do you have in mind?”
“In the entryway of your house, there’s a photo of a hand with a fistful of sand slipping through its fingers.
Since it’s so good, I’m assuming you took it, and I’d really like to paint a rendition of it.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I saw it.
So, I figured, if you’d let me, it’d have the potential to benefit both of us. ”
The glint in Zayne’s eyes shifts, typically mischievous, but now something else entirely, completely unreadable to me.
Franco nudges my arm, whispering, “You did it, newbie.”
“Did what?” I ask, voice low.
He jerks his head toward Zayne. “Got his respect.”
“What are you whispering about?” Zayne asks, eyes now narrowed in suspicion.
Franco chuckles. “Oh, nothing that would interest you.”
“So, is that a yes?” I ask Zayne, ignoring Franco.
Zayne bobs his chin, a lopsided bend to his mouth as he says, “Yeah, okay.”
“Great. Can I come by tonight to get started on it?”
Zayne clears his throat, pulling out his phone from his back pocket to check his calendar. “Shit. I have a date tonight at seven.”
I don’t miss the harsh scowl Emmy shoots him, even though Zayne seems to.
“That’s all right,” I reassure him. “I prefer privacy while I work anyway.”
He nods again.
“Ugh, I’m so jealous,” Emmy whines, shifting her body away from Zayne. “I wish I would’ve come up with an idea like that.”
“We can collaborate on the next project,” I offer quickly.
“No, no.” She waves an unperturbed hand, but her discontentment is clear as day. “I need to come up with my own brilliant ideas.”
“And your next idea will be,” Iris encourages.
Emmy smiles weakly. “Thanks.”
“All right,” I say as I rise from the table. “I’ve got like a million print orders to package for shipping. Zayne, I’ll be over around six.”
“Sounds good.”
As I walk away, my mind is filled with thoughts of composition elements, grains of sand, and the most elusive thing known to humankind—time.
“I have to admit, I’m surprised––and more than a little impressed,” Zayne remarks as I walk past him and into the entryway. The space where the painting had hung on the wall just last weekend is bare.
“Where is it?” I ask, suddenly panicked.
“Don’t worry,” Zayne says with a small chuckle. “I just moved it to a better spot for you. You’d probably be uncomfortable painting it in here. It’s drafty and you’d get a kink in your neck from staring up at it.”
“That’s thoughtful of you,” I murmur, surprised. Zayne’s not a thoughtful guy. Or at least, I thought he wasn’t. Maybe what Franco said about him at the party is true after all. At the time, I had had such a hard time believing him.
“Come on. This way.” He gestures with a sweep of his arm for me to ascend the main staircase before he takes my painting tote and canvas from me.
As we climb the stairs, I ask, “Why are you surprised?”
He’s silent for a moment before he answers. “That a newbie like you would strategize a collaboration with me, a stellar photographer with five times the popularity on social media? It’s brilliant.”
I scoff, the harsh sound of it nearly echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “I didn’t ask you to do this because of the number of followers you have. I asked because I want to paint your photograph.”
“That’s the only reason?” he asks with a well-practiced ‘come-hither’ lilt to his voice.
Just barely restraining myself from rolling my eyes, I pause my ascent on the stairs and pivot to face him, staring directly into those twin dark pools for eyes when I speak. “Yes. That’s the only reason.”
Zayne laughs as we continue, but the sound falls suspiciously flat.
We quickly round a corner at the top of the staircase and enter what appears to be a spacious spare bedroom.
There, we find the photograph propped up on an easel of its own, facing a second easel.
Zayne places my canvas on the empty one and drags a nightstand over to set my painting supplies on.
“Think you’ll need anything else?” he asks.
I let my gaze trail across the room before I reply, “Nope, I should be good. Thanks.”
He hesitates before pulling his phone from his back pocket. “Well, let’s exchange numbers, just in case one of my other roommates comes lurking.”
I laugh. “I didn’t realize we haven’t exchanged numbers yet.”
We take each other’s phones and enter our information.
“Have a good time on your date,” I say as we hand our phones back.
“Thanks. Have fun admiring my masterpiece,” he purrs, his signature smirk spread across his face as he exits the room.
I close the door behind him and return my gaze to the photo.
It’s haunted me since I first laid eyes on it.
It gives me an uncomfortable sense of urgency.
Like I’m wasting time. Like I’m rapidly losing something I’ll never get back, no matter how hard I might try.
What Zayne was talking about during lunch today made me think he must’ve been feeling something similar when he took this photo.
That’s why I was finally able to pluck up the courage to ask him if I could paint it.
I open up my tote and get all of my materials set up, but before I begin painting, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I roll my eyes, assuming it’ll be Zayne, but when I check the caller ID, I see Noah’s name and swipe my finger across the screen to accept.
“There’s that beautiful face I’ve been missing so much,” Noah’s voice says from the other end of the video call. He’s lying on his back in his bed with a hand tangled in his blond waves. The sight sends my mouth watering.
“Hey, babe.”
“How was your—” he cuts himself off, his gaze drifting over my shoulder. “Wait, where are you right now?”
I follow his gaze and glance behind me. “Oh, I’m at a friend’s place, painting.”
Lean muscles in his jaw flex. “I thought all your friends lived in the dorm with you?” His tone immediately becomes suspicious, which is weird.
He’s never taken that tone with me before.
We’ve never given each other a reason to.
But then again, I’ve never really had friends outside of Noah’s circle like this before, apart from Alexis.
“Yeah, most of them do, but two live off campus together in this house. Zayne and Franco. Remember? I told you about them on Sunday,” I remind him.
His lips form a thin, straight line before he says, “So, you’re at a frat house right now—alone—without any of your other friends?”
“Noah,” I start in a warning tone. I’m in no mood to fight.
Not right before I paint; it’ll ruin the vibe.
“First things first, it’s a small arts college.
There are no frats. Second, Zayne and Franco aren’t even home right now.
In fact, Zayne is currently out on a date.
I’m just here to paint a rendition of one of Zayne’s photographs. That’s it.”
“Did he ask you to do that? To try and trick you into coming to his house alone?” Noah asks, his suspicion continuing to rise despite my protests as he sits up in bed.
Well past my breaking point, I snap, “Spare me the toxic masculinity, Noah.”
He looks like I’ve slapped him; ocean-blue irises floating in a sea of white.
“This is a painting that I want to paint, so I asked Zayne if I could. Period. It has nothing to do with him, or with you. Just me,” I explain. “Okay?” A heavy beat of silence passes as he diverts his gaze. “That’s the truth. So, it’s your problem if you can’t decide whether or not you believe me.”
Noah doesn’t respond except to clear his throat.
I’ve never spoken to him like this before, so it’s no wonder he’s uncomfortable.
But I’m not sorry. I don’t regret saying what I said because it’s the truth, and he needed to hear it.
If he wants this relationship to continue, he has to respect me, my words, my actions, and my art.
We stare at each other for a few tense moments before Noah finally sighs. “Well, let me see this photo you want to paint.”
I flip the camera around, happy to have won this small victory.
“It’s cool,” he admits, though his tone betrays his reluctance to admit it. “I get why you want to paint it. The photographer must be talented.”
“Yeah, too bad he’s an asshole most of the time,” I tease.
Noah laughs at that. “Well then, you’re just going to have to paint the photo better than he could take it, right?”
“Exactly,” I agree, laughing too.
Noah coughs before continuing, “Look, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to call and see how you were doing. Tell you I love you.”
“I love you too,” I murmur. “I wish you could come visit this weekend.”
“It’s the first game of the recreational season,” he says sadly. “But I’ll try to come next weekend, for sure.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” he confirms.
“I’ll text you when I get back to the dorm.”
“Okay. Happy painting.”
I take a deep breath after we hang up and look back to the blank canvas.
Yes, I’ll be painting a rendition of Zayne’s photograph, but I’ll be damned if he thought I was going to paint a perfect replica. No. I wouldn’t be honoring my vision if I didn’t add my own flare.
With a smirk on my face, I pick up my paintbrush and begin.