Chapter Forty Seven
“It’s never not going to be weird, is it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at the sight before me. By my side, also with arms crossed and a suspicious expression, Everest shakes his head.
“Nope.” From the sidelines, we watch Thiago practically vibrate with energy, his grin wide enough to split his face in two.
His dark curls are a mess from sprinting up and down the field with the other team members, advising Danny on his form and handing Claire a water bottle when needed.
Then, when the drill is finished, Thiago does a round of high fives and fist pumps, congratulating the team on another great practice.
This is the third time it's happened since we got back.
“I thought having practice before breakfast would dampen his spirit,” Everest huffs, but there’s no real malice to it. Thiago is like a lovable puppy who can soften even the hardest of hearts.
“Ahh,” I smirk. “You underestimate the power of ADHD, my friend.” Everest shoots me a raised brow, our weird camaraderie shining through now that the dust has settled. I mean, he has seen me naked from every possible angle, so there's that. “Maybe we should have him as a mascot.”
“Oh god, then he’ll never leave,” Everest chuckles and then sighs, as if he can’t believe what his life has become. I turn my attention back to Thi, who is now walking over to the stands with Mitchell.
“Also, fuck you for practice before breakfast,” I remember to add, even though I’ve already said it several times.
Everest had sent out a group text late last night to announce today’s change of schedule, mentioning that Radley is looking for a rematch and we need to improve our form.
I reckon he just has other plans later that he doesn’t want to broadcast.
I don’t mind really, even if I’m not buzzing like Thiago before my morning coffee.
The last of the autumn warmth is fading and I have a vague plan to steal Thiago after his classes so we can enjoy it.
A normal afternoon where I don’t flinch every time there’s a loud bang or keep looking over my shoulder for the hint of a uniform.
I’m getting better, and each passing day without incident helps, especially now that the rumors of mine and Everest’s explosive diarrhea episode have calmed down. It seems Thiago went all out on crafting our alibis, but I’d rather that than suspicions over where we really were.
“Earth to Meg,” Everest snaps his fingers in front of my face and I jolt.
“Huh?” I scrunch up my nose and knock his hand aside. His green eyes watch me cautiously, digging through whatever secrets my expression is revealing.
“I said, same time tomorrow?”
“Don’t push your luck,” I snort, forcing my feet to move as I wave my middle finger at him. The players on the field are starting to drift off in clusters, more than a few tossing waves and casual goodbyes in my direction. I’m caught off guard every time.
Approaching Thiago, I hover on the edge of his conversation with Mitchell until the big muscled brute makes his exit, clapping Thi on the shoulder with surprising gentleness for someone who looks like he could bench press a car.
“Hey!” Thi exclaims the second he spots me. He hops down from the stands in one easy movement, holding up some sort of fabric. “Look what Mitchell made for me. Did you know he crochets?”
“Mitchell?!” I almost choke on my own breath, taking the offered granny square.
I turn it over between my fingers, half expecting it to bite me.
Nope, it’s an ordinary square of white and yellow with a ‘T’ set in the center.
Actually, ordinary might be underselling the tight stitching and clean edges.
“You’re telling me that guy,” I gesture vaguely in the direction Mitchell just disappeared, “goes home after practice and just…whips out a crochet hook?” Thiago nods enthusiastically, apparently not surprised in the slightest.
“He says it helps with hand dexterity, and stress. The entire team has one just for sentimental value. The real masterpiece is the patch blanket he’s making. I just saw the pictures on his phone, it’s going to be killer when it’s finished.”
My eyes unfocus, no longer seeing the defined edges of the square in my hand. Swallowing, I return it to Thi and struggle not to pout. The entire team has one, whereas I didn’t even know he had more than empty air batting around inside his head.
“Well you’d better tuck it away. If you turn this team into a knitting club, Everest will actually lose his mind.”
“Challenge accepted,” Thi grins and I smack his bicep.
He pretends to half-wrestle me, but ends up tucking me beneath his arm as we make our way across the pitch.
The smile across my face is genuine, and one that Everest matches as he nods and makes his own exit.
My chest expands with a full, unhindered breath.
Everything is finally clicking back into place.
Once showered and changed into a sweater and wide, bootcut jeans, Thiago accompanies me all the way to the quiet alcove where we eat, before kissing me deeply and heading off to start his own day. I catch him just before he ducks through the arch.
“Hey, Thi! Being an extrovert looks good on you.” He winks, his face glowing with life.
I sit for a long moment after he’s disappeared, stretching my legs out in the morning light.
Around me, students move at a slow, sleepy pace, half-awake and nursing takeout cups.
My own is still beside me, half-full. To myself, I can admit this morning’s drills weren’t the worst idea, the burn of my limbs ebbing to a post-practice bliss.
No matter what happens today, I’ve already accomplished something.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I cut across campus in an unhurried pace, breathing in the crisp air as it shifts toward late morning.
The art building comes into view, all tall windows and looming entrance, yet I’m oddly excited to see what is in store for me today.
The studio oozes the chemical smell of paint, students already scattered around with their pencils scratching against sketchpads.
And there, perched on his favorite stool right in the middle, is Reid.
His mood hits me the moment I walk through the door, a dark aura pulsating around him like a heartbeat.
Twisting away from me, he drags his brush against the thin canvas sheet rolled out across his desk.
I don’t linger to see what he’s working on.
As I have every day since I bumped into him in the hallway, my gaze slides past Reid like he’s just another body in the room, and I keep walking until I reach the back corner where my own canvas waits.
There’s a faint outline that I’ve been working on, but the time has come to stop fucking around with the sketch and actually apply some paint.
Setting my bag down and rolling my shoulders, I exhale slowly as I pick up a brush, turning it between my fingers.
The problem is, I’ve sketched a pair of eyes in perfect proportion, but until I start adding color, I don’t know who the eyes belong to.
They just sit there, hollow and waiting, like they’re expecting me to decide something I’m not ready to face.
So I hover, brush suspended above the paint palette, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
“Morning, Meg,” Liz appears with a gentle expression. “How are you this morning?”
“All good,” I reply lightly. For whatever reason, my voice causes Reid’s shoulders to tense as he fails in pretending he’s not listening in. I twist so he’s out of my eyeline and Liz has my full attention. Gesturing towards the canvas, my lips twist. “I just don’t know how to start.”
“The first stroke is always the hardest,” Liz agrees, rounding the easel to stand by my side.
Tapping a finger on her chin, a curl of her hair that won’t be wrangled into a ponytail bobs on her cheek.
She stares for longer than I’m comfortable with but I ride the wave, waiting for her verdict.
“This is beautiful,” she starts and I wince, waiting for the but.
“But, it’s all very controlled. Have you ever considered… ”
Taking my hand in hers, Liz guides me to smear the brush through the palette, and then up to the canvas. A smudge of brown, blue, gray and green smears straight through the iris of the eye, ruining the symmetry in a single stroke. I gasp, unsure how I feel but Liz smiles encouragingly.
“There are other ways to achieve the image in your head. Let loose a little, see what comes out.” To drive her point home, Liz shakes my shoulders, causing the bangles on her wrists to rattle.
I force a smile until she retreats, then face my canvas alone.
A slice of horror cuts through me but I just manage to wrangle it back.
Against my better judgement, I don’t try to fix the paint smear.
Instead, I push headphones into my ears, hit play on a random mix and drag the brush across the canvas again.
Where I would usually pull back, I take Liz’s advice and let myself go.
Color builds upon color, thick in some places, thin and frantic in others, like my brain has finally found an outlet and doesn’t care about the outcome.
My breathing shifts, syncing with the movement as my hand becomes steadier.
There’s no face anymore, no subject. Simply emotion pressed into paint, spilling out in abstract swirls and harsh slashes.
I’m not thinking about whether it’s good.
I’m not thinking about anything at all, until I finally step back and recognize the shapes that have started to form.