Page 85 of Daydream

“Two wins and a fight with you? I’m so lucky. I have to get back, but you’re going to wait here, right?” He peeks at my laptop screen where my Word document is open. “What are your imaginary friends doing today?”

It sounds patronizing, and it is in reality, but Henry started calling my characters my imaginary friends when I said it felt weird callingthem their names, and I like when he shows an interest now that I have something to actually tell him. “They’re not communicating and instead are dancing around what they want from each other.”

He scoffs. “Sounds like us.”

“We communicate,” I argue. “We just communicated that we’re in a fight because you kissed me to get rid of some women you’re too tired to entertain.”

“Halle,” he says softly. “The only person I want to entertain is you. You and your dramatics keep me totally occupied. I kissed you because I’m a really big fan of kissing you. Some might say obsessed. It’s the first thing I thought about doing when I got off the ice. Being here listening to you create imaginary conflict is going to get me into anactualconflict with Faulkner, but it’s worth it.”

“An obsession sounds pretty dramatic if you ask me,” I mutter, burying my head in his chest to hide my face from him. “You should go do your leadery duties and leave me to my imaginary friends, I guess.”

“I’m excited to fight with you when I’m done,” he says, kissing my forehead.

“Can we save the fight until a later date? I’m kinda a big fan of not fighting with you ever,” I say teasingly.

He nods as he laughs, walking away. It’s not until he’s going back through the no-access door that I realize quite how many people are watching me. I dig my headphones out of my purse and concentrate on my characters dancing around what they want from each other, anddefinitelynot on Henry saying that sounds like us.

THERE IS NO FEELING MOREunnatural than silence in Henry’s house.

While everyone piled in here earlier to celebrate their much-wanted wins, when they all headed out Henry told them he wasstaying in tonight with me. I’m pretty sure he said “with Halle” so they couldn’t argue with him, and I don’t mind being his get-out-of-jail-free card if he’s tired from the adrenaline.

As soon as I made myself comfortable on his bed with my laptop he disappeared into another room, and when he came back, he was wearing his painting clothes and had a fresh canvas under his arm. He did not entertain my excitement that I was going to see him do something more than sketch. Instead, he sat on the floor and opened a small palette of paints, and that’s where he’s been since.

I don’t know what he’s painting, but given he’s never let me see his work properly before, I’m too scared to ask in case it causes him and his canvas to scurry off somewhere else in the house.

“I can feel you watching me,” he says as he swishes his paintbrush against the material.

“Watching sounds creepy. I’m admiring. I love your artwork—the little you show me, anyway.”

I only get to see the things he does for me, not for himself. The drawings of Joy, the flowers he draws because I prefer them to real ones now, the portrait of Quack Efron being a distinguished gentleman wearing a suit, and not forgetting the things he drawsonme.

Henry places the paintbrush between his teeth and stands from the floor with his palette and the towel it was sitting on. He throws the towel onto the bed beside me and puts the paint down. With one hand he closes my laptop and puts it on his bedside table, takes the paintbrush out of his mouth with the other, and sets it next to the palette.

“What’re you doing?”

He climbs on top of me, straddling my hips so I can’t move. “I’m painting. Can I lift your shirt up?”

“You’re going to paint on my stomach?” I ask, already knowing the answer before he nods. “It’s not flat.”

“I have seen your stomach before,” he says, like I’m ridiculous for even pointing it out. “Why does that matter?”

“It’s just not toned, and I have some marks,”and I’m pretty sure there’s a few black hairs beneath my belly button that I haven’t tweezed.

“It isn’t weird to me that you have stretch marks.” He pulls the arm of his T-shirt up and flexes, twisting until I spot the faint faded lines on his biceps. “I have them. You don’t need to feel insecure.”

I wouldn’t say I immediately feel super defensive, but there is an aspect of how I want to react that is to defend myself. I know my body isn’t what society would define as perfect, but I’ve worked hard to love myself through the years when it’s felt like everything is designed to convince me not to. “I’m not insecure. I like my body,” I say. “Other people seeing it isn’t something I’m used to, that’s all. I was just worried it wouldn’t be a good canvas.”

“You’re my perfect canvas, Halle. Every part of you. But good to both of those things. I like your body, too, and I like being the only one to see it.”

Perfect canvas. “What are you going to paint?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

I lift my T-shirt and tuck it under my bra to keep it out of his way. He doesn’t talk while he gets to work. Starting with large strokes across my ribs and below my belly button, followed by hundreds, if not thousands, of smaller dabs and flicks. He hums to himself, occasionally pausing to sit back to assess his work.

Every brush stroke feels like a kiss against my skin, and when he checks if I’m okay, I can only nod, because the tenderness of it all is too much. It feels so personal and so special, and he wants to do it with me.

He climbs off me and works from my side, lying on his stomach. Then my other side, then between my legs. Every so often he asks me if I need anything, but I say no because I don’t want this to end.

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