Page 17 of From Now On

Swish. Swish. Swish.

I don’t realize how furiously I’m swirling my paintbrush until a few droplets of dirty water splash onto my denim-clad thigh. I drop the paintbrush’s wooden handle, snatch the stained rag off the table, and head for the shiny industrial sink in the corner.

A quick glance out the window reveals it’s still raining. A dreary day that matches my current melancholy perfectly.

I soak a rag, and then dab at the droplets on my jeans. The sleeve of my striped sweater snags on the buckle of the belt I found at my favorite vintage shop in Phoenix, yanking some threads loose. I swear under my breath as I survey the damage. It’s not the first time I’ve ruined clothes in this room—one of the main reasons most of my clothing is secondhand, aside from my financial situation—but it’s especially annoying today. Small grievances seem much bigger when you’re already upset.

Rhythmic tapping draws my attention to the doorway. Thea Lewis—head of Holt’s art department and my favorite professor-slash-advisor—appears in the doorway wearing her signature stilettos and carrying an armful of blank canvases.

“Thought you might be in here,” Thea says, sending a cheery smile my way as she taps her way across the linoleum.

“You thought right,” I reply, wringing out the wet rag and heading back toward my station.

I, like all senior art majors, have a private studio space to store canvases and work on projects uninterrupted. But barely anyone showed up for this afternoon’s class, and those that did disappeared as soon as it ended. Since my private studio space is approximately the size of a closet and I had this room to myself anyway, I just stayed in here.

“Oh, Eve. Ilovethis one.” Thea has stopped in front of the painting I’m working on.

“Thanks.”

I’ve been working nonstop for three hours. I squint at the canvas from a distance, agreeing it’s some of my best work. I usually prefer to work with oils, but watercolor was the right choice for this piece.

Too bad it’s not possible to actually repaint the past.

Too bad I kinda want to light it on fire.

“Does it have a name yet?” Thea asks.

“Um…Homesick.”

Daddy Issueswould be more fitting.

Thea nods. “It’s stunning. The colors are perfect. Sweet and nostalgic.”

She stares at my painting for a few more seconds before walking over to a nearby table to stack the canvases she’s carrying.

Once she’s deposited them, she turns back toward the doorway. “I’m headed home. Have a wonderful break.”

“You too,” I tell her.

Thea studies me, traces of concern appearing on her pretty face. She’s one of my younger professors and has always treated me more like a little sister than a student. “Eve, dear, please tell me you have some fun planned for next week.”

“I do,” I assure her, opting not to mention it wasn’t entirely voluntary. “I’m going to Calaveras.”

I’m expecting a blank look—my expression when Harlow shared the name of the California town that’s our spring break destination—but Thea lights up instead. “How wonderful! Calaveras is beautiful. Make sure you bring some materials with you.”

“I always do,” I reply.

And I wouldn’t forget them for this trip. Not only do I have a nine-hour drive with Hunter to act busy during, I’m not totally sold on Harlow’s assurance that I’ll fit in with their group. Having the option to go off and paint or sketch seems smart.

“Great. Good night, Eve.”

“Night, Thea,” I call after her.

She’s the only professor or teacher I’ve called by their first name, and it felt strange until sophomore year. Now, it’s second nature.

Twenty minutes later, my growling stomach convinces me to call it quits. Lunch with my friend Mary feels like eons ago. We grabbed sandwiches in the student center before Mary left for the airport. She, like most of campus, has already departed for spring break. Harlow left this morning.

I clean up my station, store my canvas, and grab my backpack.

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