Page 158 of Maybe You

I paint birds on his living room wall. It’s not intentional, which is a weird thing to say about something that is obviously executed with intent. It’s an idea. Something that pops into my head and spreads its roots through my brain until it’s anchored in place, and I can’t get rid of it.

I want to leave a mark.

Some kind of sign. Something physical that would take effort to get rid of.

Wren was here.

It marinates in my brain. This thought. This desire.

I buy acrylics and brushes.

There’s a bare white wall in the nook where Sutton’s dining table is. Right between the kitchen and a window. I zero in on that and walk around for a few days with that wall all over my brain. I’ve crossed out the verbal signs of me being here for the time being, but my fingers itch for something.

I give up eventually.

I paint birds on his living room wall early one morning when I can’t sleep. We went out last night with Steph, Quinn, and two of Steph’s friends—Jude and Blake—and stumbled into bed in the middle of the night, all hungry mouths and wandering hands.

Sutton fell asleep after with his head in the crook of my neck and his soft breaths on my skin.

I stayed up and thought about leaving a mark.

Eventually, I roll out of bed and pad into the living room. I get the paint and the brushes.

By the time Sutton stumbles out of bed sometime before noon, the once white wall is a mess of leaves and blooms and birds.

He wraps himself around me from behind and kisses the side of my neck.

“I should’ve asked you first,” I say.

He leans his chin on my shoulder. He’s silent for a long time. His arms tighten around me.

“It’s our home,” he says. “You never have to ask.”

It gets even more real.

When I get home, all the lights are off and everything’s quiet, but Sutton’s sneakers are lying by the wall like he’s tossed them off his feet.

“Sutt?” I call out after I’ve dropped my stuff on the bench and wandered farther into the living room.

“In here.”

I follow his voice into the bathroom.

He’s sitting in an empty bathtub, fully clothed. His head is dropped back, his eyes aimed at the ceiling. The only light is the faint glow from the street outside.

I go and crouch down next to the bath, covering the back of his hand with mine.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

He’s tense. Every line in his body is tense.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He chews on his words for a little bit before he lands on “Hiding.”

“From?”

---