Careful to not touch the screen in case he calls again and my thumb accepts it, I pick the iPad up and set it in its spot next to my phone. I click my horse lamp off and cuddle under my sheets. If I’m not asleep by 10:40, I’ll start my meditation track.
The room lights up, and I peek above my duvet to see Pete’s face again. “Take the hint,” I lilt, hiding under my blankets. He can make fun of me all he wants when I see him Saturday. For now, he’s just going to have to deal with radio silence.
I roll over, keeping my head covered. Zach… that’s who I’m doing this for. I’m going to loosen up, get his number, fall in love, and have his babies.
After six minutes of Zach-channel and not much luck in the sleeping department, I turn on my meditation, ignoring that I have four missed facetime requests from Pete.
Candace
Zach is late.
Again.
The smell of paint and fun settle around me, and I nibble on the inside of my bottom lip, playing with that canker sore. If I’ve really fallen in love with the guy, I better start being way more flexible, beginning with my tolerance level for punctuality.
I tap my paintbrush against my palm, letting the well-used bristles flick against my skin. The door stays stupidly closed, the hallway just outside the classroom empty. I glance around the room, many people already dabbing into their paints and brushing away. Guess I’m the only one concerned that our model is MIA.
I stop playing with my lip and rest my gaze on my work in progress. The canvas is large—I opted for the twenty-four by thirty-six when I saw Zach’s heavenly body walk through the door. I’ll paint his face and stick it up on my wall for him and every one of our babies to see.
My color palate for him is unlike everyone else’s in the room. Most are going for the traditional colors, of course. His complexion is mid-tone brown. His tattoos are monochromatic with only slight differences in shade, most likely depending on when he got them. His eyes are a piercing ice blue, which is romantic and amazing and so rare a student actually asked him if he wore colored contacts.
The room is filled with these three colors, each easel holding a bottle or two… except mine.
When he walked in, I instantly went Bozo red, heart eyes and blushy cheeks and all. All I see from him is fiery red.
So I went with a deep shade of blue.
Next to my blue, I have cascading shades of violet, lavender, and periwinkle. His tattoos will be painted in various shades of maroon, while his stunning eyes will be painted the deepest black with gray flecks.
I kept my colors ice cold—the exact opposite to how he makes me feel. It’s my signature.
I hope he likes it.
The door creaks open, and my heart floats up my throat for two seconds before it sinks back down where it belongs. It’s just Miss Barley.
“Our model will join us in just a minute,” she says. She only addresses the entire class once, maybe twice during the two hours we’re here. The rest of the time she spends floating from canvas to canvas, offering up suggestions or asking us our motivation behind our creative choices.
Her clothing is always the same, too—a loose hanging tank top over a brightly colored sports bra. Her bottoms are oversized gray sweats with a drawstring that’s barely hanging on anymore. Paint is spattered everywhere—some days in her curly red hair too. I think she gave up on keeping the paint off her long ago.
I drop my eyes to my lap, my paint apron covering my clothes from head to toe. I wear black, form-fitting yoga pants and a capped sleeve tee. It’s a combination I don’t mind getting paint on, yet I haven’t had to worry about that for years. I’ve perfected the art of… well, perfectly clean art time. My multi-colored, paint-free apron is proof of that.
“So you’re aware,” Miss Barley continues, “he’ll be dressed a little differently today.”
Oh poo… no shirtless Zach? I don’t exactly hide my frown very well, and whispered chatter fills the room, especially from my neighbors.
I sit next to a girl named Raina and the guy next to her is Tristan. From what I’ve gathered from eavesdropping, Tristan is super curious to find out if Ben, another classmate, would be interested in him. Raina constantly encourages him to go for it.
And I get a little too jealous over their friendship and wish I had the guts to join in their conversations. I wonder if they think I’m too naïve and innocent to go for Zach.
But I did curse that one time I stubbed my toe. I dropped a hard s-word. So, not totally innocent.
Tristan leans over to Raina and whispers something I can’t hear, and I don’t want to look like I’m trying to listen in, so I set my brush on the easel and wait for Zach, bouncing not-so-patiently on my stool.
I think today will be the day I ask him to hang out or something. There’s a cute coffee place on the corner by Troublemakers. Or we could go to Troublemakers… do some bowling and arcading. I get a discount, and maybe I’d be super cute in my element. I have all class to decide, drudge up the courage to ask him, and spit it out in an actual formed sentence.
I mean, I stayed up till 10:31 last night. I’m a total bad a-word.
“What do you think?” Raina asks me, and I swivel on my stool, my eyes wide.
“Who, me?” I look around to make sure she’s not talking to an invisible man on my head, and she lets out a tinkle of laughter.
“We were thinking today is nude day.” She elbows Tristan. “Think our model will come in a robe or just in all his naked glory?”
My stomach plummets to my toes. “Uhm,” I croak, “I-I thought we had to sign a consent form for nude models.”
Her bushy brows pull in. “We did. It was a requirement for the class.”
How do I not remember that? Oh yeah… My parents did it.
Wait, Mom and Dad are okay with me painting a penis?
Sweat builds in my palms, and I swipe them on my apron, suddenly not okay staring at the classroom door. He wouldn’t walk in without a robe, right? I mean, it’s a public hallway. The thing would flap around and stuff, yeah?
I do not know how penises work.
I barely know what one looks like.
Why would anyone want to paint one? From what I’ve seen, they aren’t exactly pretty.
Oh gosh, what if he has a tattoo down there? Or a piercing? Or he had like a botched circumcision? Or what if it’s super, super long?
My breathing has gotten embarrassingly loud, enough to scare Raina and Tristan off from continuing their conversation with me.
I can’t paint a penis. I can’t see his butt. And if he’s got that V muscle thing that leads to it… Oh gosh, there’s probably hair.
My brush teeters out of my shaking hands and clatters to the floor. As I bend to pick it up, the classroom door swings open.
Bare feet. Bare ankles. Bare calves. Tattoos on those calves.
I shoot back to my stool, positioning myself so my canvas covers him from neck down.
“Ah, Zach,” Miss Barley says, squeezing in between Tristan’s and Raina’s easels. She pulls up a cushioned chair. “In case you need a break,” she says, gesturing to the seat. “We have a forty minute session, but I don’t expect you to stand for it all.”
My eyes burn a hole through my canvas, the jawline, long neck, and muscled chest I’ve started to paint seeming too large to paint below the belt. Maybe I won’t even need to look…