Page 38 of Possession

I held back my shudder as she pulled away and her fingertips dusted at my hairline. Blood pumped and filled the deep, dark recesses of my heart. My body responded to her body as I watched her blush fall past her chest, disappearing beyond her sweater.

As I let go of her hips, I steadied myself. My voice was even, and there was no trace of the fire, of the red, lashing flame she’d created as I said, “See you tomorrow.”

The door clicked shut behind me as I walked into the studio. Declan was already there, dressed in torn jeans that hugged his thighs and a tight, white t-shirt. His skin always looked so touchable next to the soft white of cotton. He was pulling out my supplies, but his work stool was empty.

“Hi.” The syllable was meek as I approached him.

We’d started something again, I wasn’t sure where it would go, but the relief I felt in his presence was more than I had ever received while on my knees in prayer.

He took my hand in his and the calm I’d been craving all day trickled down my spine. “Hey.”

I reveled in the feel of his hand, and I took a moment to admire his work. I’d not had a chance lately to really see it up close, because I’d been too enveloped in my own work. His painting, it was raw and real and stunning. The texture was thick with surreal strokes and lines that blurred but blended into each other in a perfect dance. The center piece, my eyes, encased by trees, surrounded by giant swirls of dark grays and purples. Each whorl was its own cosmos encased by tiny specks of yellow… stars.

I felt breathless as I let the intricate details soak my vision. “Declan, this is so much more than beautiful.”

His eyes filled with an ocean of blue. It was unnerving and familiar at the same time, watching him melt in front of me, watching the life of the boy I used to know color his cheeks.

He was quiet and let me admire the pieces of his soul that had been splashed onto the canvas.

“This should be in a museum, lit for everyone to see. Are there more?”

He nodded.

“I’d… I’d like to see them sometime… if that’s okay?”

“Most of my work is dark, you might not like what you see.” His jaw pulsed slightly, but I smiled through the nerves.

“I’ve always liked your dark, Declan.”

He squeezed my hand and said, “If we finish up a little early we could swing by my place, all my paintings and drawings are there. I try to frame the most important ones.”

“I’d love to.” I let my eyes linger on his painting for a few seconds before I met his gaze. The air between us seemed to fill with static, and the scent of him, the strength of his fingers wrapped with mine, made my heart feel hollow and full at the same time and it beat with uncertainty as his lips spread slowly into a grin. A grin I knew, a grin that transferred heat from his body to mine.

He looked down at our tangled fingers. “Should we paint?”

His voice was firm and strong and sure and I hoped that we would eventually, fully mend our broken hearts. I wanted him to look at me like this again and again. The idea ofuswas a treacherous river to forge, and our past, a rushing rapid, eager to tear us apart, ready to shred away our skin and bare our bones. It was too soon to think myself worthy of a future, it was foolish, but Declan had forgiven me. He’d held my hand the other night and told me that, together, we were the truth. Not the rules I’d been given by the church I had chosen to blindly follow in order to find some speck of hope. I’d wanted to excel and become something holy, worthy, but with Declan I only ever needed to be me. Mercy… it was thick and somber and resided inside the storm of his eyes as he watched me now. It was fresh and new and beautiful and I’d missed him.

I wanted him.

“Yeah, let’s paint.” I smiled and he slowly released my hand.

I could paint my life in golds and greens and begin to heal for myself, for him. With Declan, I was able to just be—be me, even if it was only for tonight, or this past week. I couldn’t allow myself to think beyond this moment.

He was quiet as he rustled through the brown leather satchel that was always sitting at the foot of his easel. He pulled a sketch pad and a box of charcoal from the bag.

“Are you not going to paint?” I asked when he sat on the cold, concrete floor in front of his work stool.

“I think it’s finished,” he said as he flipped the sketch book to a blank page.

I awaited more explanation, but none ever came. He sat on the ground for the majority of the night, moving the charcoal quickly over the page, stopping every now and then to smooth his thumb over the paper, shadowing, contouring… what, I couldn’t say. Conversation was minimal, and it was difficult to concentrate on my own project. At times, I’d feel him watching me. It would start out as a tingle of goose bumps that would spread along the line of my arm. His eyes lifted the hairs on the back of my neck, but when I would finally allow myself to look at him, his head would be down, his arm muscles taut and determined as he drew whatever masterpiece he’d thought up along the page. The urge to ask him what he was working on almost consumed me. I realized I’d barely worked on my own painting. I exhaled a sharp breath and he chuckled. The sound of his deep laugh, mixed with the light bass of the music stirred the dormant butterflies in my belly.

“What?” I asked, unable to contain my smirk as his eyes raised to mine. A hint of mischief colored his sea glass irises with a speck of caramel.

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” His smile erased all the dark shadows from under his eyes.

My eyebrows formed a dubious curve. “I don’t know what you mean?” I shook my head and turned my attention back to my own work. I ignored the smug smile he had. It felt too easy… this whole night did.

“It’s you.” His voice was smoke and flame and my stomach flipped.

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