Chapter 13
Ispend two nights in a row painting at Zayne and Franco’s house, but the piece still isn’t finished.
I kept the best part for last on purpose, wanting to keep it a surprise until I post the painting on social media—to better preserve the wow factor.
Plus, I’m not sure whether Zayne will be pissed or not, so I figure it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
It’s Friday night, which signals the end of my first full week at Lizbeth. My right arm is sorer than it’s ever been and my brain’s foggy with fatigue, but my soul is elated. I’ve never painted so much in my life. If I could spend the rest of my days painting like this—with wild abandon—I would.
All day, I’d been trying to come up with the best place to finish the painting.
I couldn’t finish it in my room, or Iris and Emmy might tell Zayne, and the Dalí Building is locked up tight after five in the evening on Fridays, so that wasn’t an option either.
Until, finally, the idea came to me during dinner.
The dorm roof.
I’d raced up the emergency staircase to the very top, immensely grateful to have found the door to the roof unlocked.
And that’s where I am now, stories above Lizbeth’s campus, painting in the waning evening light. The skin on my hand burns, muscles rigid, and nerves tingling from overexposure to the cold, but the view is well worth the discomfort.
I have no idea how long I’ve been up here painting, or even what time it is, when I hear the rusty metal door creak open behind me.
I whirl around in my stool and find who I suspect, based on their size and choice of trendy athleisure wear, is another student walking toward me.
Ink begins to stain the burnt orange sky as the sun dips beneath the horizon, so with the sprawling shadows, I can’t be sure of who they are.
But they don’t look familiar at first glance.
“Hello?” I ask, low and slow to mask my alarm.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to find anyone up here,” the person replies in a pleasant timbre, stopping to stand in the shadows a few feet away.
I let out a relieved breath. “No worries. I just didn’t know other people came up here.”
“They don’t,” the stranger confirms.
My lips pull into a conspiratorial smirk. “Are you the reason that door is unlocked then?”
The shadowed figure nods and kicks a small chunk of concrete across the roof before wandering a couple of steps closer, but I still can’t see their face—hidden in the shadows beneath the hood of their jacket.
“Well, thanks. I’m glad you did. This is my new favorite painting spot, for sure.”
The stranger turns, looking away from me and toward the fading sunset. “It’s one of mine too.”
“Great minds think alike.”
Their shadowed gaze swings to the painting at my side, and for some reason, I feel like I’ve met this person before. Trying to shake off the sensation, I study my painting too. It’s so close to being done. Just a few more brushstrokes to go.
For a few moments, we don’t speak, and my heart continues to race as I rattle off a mental list of people this stranger could be: the emo kid I saw on my first day here, the grunge-chic girl that lives on the first floor, or—my pulse kicks into overdrive—the scowling guy from class. Sudden panic seizes me.
“Amazing,” the stranger breathes, and immediately the oxygen returns to the too-thin air around us. There’s no way the scowling guy, who I now know is named Remi, would compliment my work. His and his friends’ nasty comments on my social media posts this past week have made that abundantly clear.
“Thanks,” I say as my pulse levels out. “I’ve been working on it non-stop for the past few days.”
“It shows. It’s stunning.”
That word again. My blood heats, warming my cool, tingling skin as I flush.
“You don’t think it’s a bit much?” I ask, deciding to trust this unusually kind stranger.
“Yes.” My neck twinges from the sheer force of my gaze seeking theirs. “But that’s what makes it so daring.”
A shaky laugh passes my lips as I, discreetly as possible, rub the back of my aching neck. “You scared me there for a second.”
“The more important question is, do you think it’s too much?”
I return my gaze to my work, giving the question space to take root and grow. “No,” I finally decide. “It’s just enough.”
“Then you’ve determined the only opinion that matters.”
The stranger takes a few more steps toward me.
Half of their body is now illuminated by soft, bronze light.
They’re wearing black sweatpants with sneakers and an oversized hoodie the color of freshly fallen snow, the hood thrown up over their shaggy, midnight hair.
The dark, wavy tendrils dance haphazardly around their eyebrows in the breeze.
They’re wearing a facial covering over their nose and mouth, and I notice their one illuminated eye is jade green, almost glowing in the ever-dimming light.
My stomach somersaults as that same peculiar sense of familiarity rings out in my chest again, but much louder this time, booming like a bell tower. Subconsciously, I grip the edges of my seat for support.
There’s no way. But—the mask. The white hoodie. The glowing eye. That angular jaw.
All of it screams . . . Phantom. I’ve watched them enough over the years to know.
I chuckle, but it comes out all wrong, warped and jittery. “I wish it were that easy.”
Keep your cool. Keep your cool. Keep your goddamn cool!
The stranger tilts their head, tossing the shadowed half of their face further into darkness. “Life might not be, but art is.”
“I might have to disagree with you there.”
“Why?” they ask, their luminescent eye roving over my face.
A shiver cascades down my spine, making me sit up straighter on my stool. “Well, without the opinion of your viewers, how do you know if your art is any good?”
Finding shelter from the cold in their hoodie pocket, the stranger’s long, pale hands disappear from view as they counter, “Do you think your art only has value if others like it?”
“Well, yes. Um—I mean, no.” My attention drops to the buttery, polished wood of the paintbrush as I roll it between my fingers, a likely fruitless attempt at hiding the color now attacking my cheeks. “Perhaps a bit of both.”
The stranger remains silent, so I continue, my breaths coming more quickly, “For example, with this painting, I chose a non-traditional setting for its background simply because I wanted to. I knew I would like it. But . . . now that it’s finished, I have to admit, I’m nervous how others will perceive it.
” I swallow hard. “That’s why I asked you, a total stranger—no offense—for your opinion. ”
I make a mental note to give myself a swift kick in the ass later. Why on earth did I just say that? I’m way too flustered. If this stranger really is Phantom, getting their opinion on my work would be a dream come true.
“No offense taken,” the stranger says quietly. They sound closer than they did before. “But I get that. Art is conflict as much as it is freedom. Sometimes it feels impossible to separate your own expectations from the expectations of those around you.”
“Exactly,” I murmur. “Imposter syndrome’s a bitch.”
When I turn back to them, they’re standing right behind me.
It’s then that I appreciate their face fully.
Their facial covering is black, with a single, white-lined smiley face printed on the front, like an emoji.
Even covered by the mask, the sharp contour of their cheekbones stands out.
The printed smile is in direct contrast to their deeply sorrowful eyes; one seafoam green and one cobalt blue.
They’re beautiful . . . or handsome—no, they’re both, in equal measure.
The person I now fully believe is Phantom takes a deep breath before looking away. From the slight crinkle in the skin around their eyes, I think they may be smiling beneath the cloth. They murmur something under their breath that I can’t hear.
“What was that?” I ask, every tingling molecule in my body suddenly on high alert.
“I was just saying that you shouldn’t waste your time and energy worrying. This painting will have a phenomenal reception.”
“Thanks. You know, I—” I’m about to formally introduce myself when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I curse under my breath and grab it, finding a text from Franco inviting me to come to their place for another party.
“Sorry,” I apologize aloud. “My friends are just inviting me out. I don’t mean to be—” The sound of the roof door slamming shut rattles my ear drums. “—Rude.”
I whirl around, confirming, once more, that I’m wholly and utterly alone. Anger flares red-hot in my stomach, but the flames are quickly doused by a slushy mixture of sadness and longing.
There goes my opportunity.
My shivering arms cradle my chest while I remind myself that I don’t even know whether the stranger truly is Phantom or not.
That was just a knee-jerk assumption I made based on years’ worth of evidence—a fact I should definitely be embarrassed to admit out loud.
But regardless, even if they are Phantom, why would they want to hang around me?
Phantom’s in an entirely different league of artists.
They wouldn’t want to be my friend anyway.
No. This is better. Now I’ll never know for sure, one way or the other, and I’ll never have to know the pain of Phantom’s rejection.
Yes, this is perfectly fine.
As the delicate sapphire dusk finally conquers the sky, my aloneness suffocates me; anxiety ready to crush my chest and throttle me dead unless I do something, anything, to get out of my own damn head.
Pure adrenaline heaves the air through my lungs as I quickly finish the painting, then grab my phone and respond to Franco’s text.
I’ll be right there.