11. Tyler
Tyler
The next morning, Cassie is still sleeping when I wake up.
She’s sprawled across her small dorm bed, hair messy, looking younger than she usually does. I watch her sleep for a moment, thinking about how I got here, from being someone she rightfully hated to being someone she trusts enough to be vulnerable with.
It feels like a gift I don’t deserve but will spend the rest of my life trying to earn.
She looks beautiful, and I’m planning on doing it again.
She wakes up gradually, stretching and making a small sound of contentment when she sees me.
“Morning,” she says, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning. I was going to make you breakfast, but your dorm kitchen situation is tragic.” I lean in and give her a kiss.
She laughs. “Dorm life. Want to get breakfast somewhere?”
“Yeah. And then I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise.”
We shower, awkwardly, in the tiny dorm bathroom, get dressed, and head to a breakfast place off campus. After we eat, I drive her to the old art building on the edge of campus where I have my studio space.
“I want to show you my work,” I explain. “The real stuff. Not just what I’ve submitted to the magazine.”
She follows me upstairs to my studio, and I watch her take it in, the canvases, the sketches, the work I’ve been doing for the past two years of therapy and self-examination.
There’s one painting in particular I’m nervous about. It’s a portrait of a girl, not photorealistic, but emotional. Bold colors and confident brushwork. She’s caught in a moment of fierceness and vulnerability simultaneously, mid-speech, mid-thought, mid-becoming.
“That’s me,” Cassie says, approaching the canvas.
“Yeah.”
“When did you paint this?” She looks at the art closer.
“About a month ago. After the first time you sat down with me at the library.”
She studies it in silence for a long time.
“You painted me like I matter,” she says finally.
“Because you do.”
She turns around and kisses me, and it’s soft and full of emotion.
“I’m falling in love with you,” she says. “And it terrifies me. But I’m doing it anyway.”
“I love you,” I say. “I have for months. Maybe longer.”
“I know. I’ve known for a while. I just wasn’t ready to admit it.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now I’m ready. Now I’m choosing this. Choosing you. Even though you’re a hockey player who paints poetry in the middle of the night, and I’m supposed to hate everything about that.”
“Do you hate it?”
“No. I think it’s the most beautiful thing about you.”