Page 102 of Debt of My Soul

“I want to draw everything about you. I have from the moment I laid eyes on you. Wanted to know the depth of your pain, the exuberance of your soul, or the simple everyday experiences that bring you joy. The cell was one of those many moments I was compelled to capture.”

“Why?”

He sighs and brings my hand to his mouth to delicately kiss each pad of my finger. My blood ignites for him.

“I’m not easily thrown off my track. I have a mission and a job. My life revolves around that. It’s what drives my focus. But you … you in the bank snatched that away. I’ve never been more pressed to know someone than I have you.”

“So I’m a distraction?”

“The best kind,” he says and grins.

I lean into him, brushing my nose along the firm muscles of his neck. I inhale, unable to get enough of him. What’s happening to me?

I’d never felt this close to Chris, and I was with him for years and years. Everything felt surface-level with him. It makes sense in high school where more adult issues didn’t have a place. But as we grew, we never grew into a deep relationship. Maybe that’s where we went wrong—or maybe were just wrong in general.

I didn’t want to expose myself to him, and Chris, I’m sure, didn’t want to reveal his shortcomings and struggles to me. In hindsight, while what he did and how he chose to move on was wrong, I can’t necessarily say it wasn’t for the best.

“Well, I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. You’ve got me beat there.”

Liam snorts. “I doubt that’s true.”

Now it’s my turn to huff. In fact, I’ll prove it to him.

Untangling myself from the sheets, I half roll off the bed like a ninja and dart to the bedroom door. Before I’m all the way through it, I grip the frame and turn back to Liam propped up in bed.

His eyes are pinched together in confusion, but the relaxed way he’s positioned, hands folded behind his head, leaning against the headboard—I almost hightail it back to bed.

“Be right back,” I say and bolt to Liam’s desk, where I found the pencils and drawing paper earlier. Before?—

I shake my head. I’m not ruining this time with Liam. I’m safe, and I trust him.

After grabbing a sheet of paper and pencil, plus a magazine from the coffee table, I practically skip back into the bedroom.

Liam’s gaze immediately goes to the supplies I’ve collected and a smile breaks over his mouth. He runs his tongue along his back teeth while shaking his head. “What are you doing?”

“Proving to you I can’t draw.” Feet crisscrossed, I prop my paper onto of the magazine, which is now supported on my knee. “Okay. Don’t move a muscle.”

“But what if I’m too tempted?” Liam asks, reaching over to fiddle with a piece of hair brushing across my cheek. I bat his hand away.

“Ah, ah. None of that. Let the artist work.” I muster as much of a pompous tone into the way I say it, and Liam lets out a bellowing laugh.

He leans back into his position. But instead of looking off into the distance or checking his phone, he watches me intently.

I start with his face. Not overly round, but I draw an oval type shape and call it good. As I study his unruly hair, I focus on capturing its natural waves as I sketch, adding a loosely tucked bun resting on top of his head. I draw some circles for eyes andwhat ends up looking like a triangle for a nose, then cringe when I realize these particular pencils don’t have erasers. Clearly not designed for someone like me.

I spend over twenty minutes working on his face, including the massive muscle that flexes in his neck. Finishing the drawing, I stare at it and chuckle.

“All right. Ready for the big reveal?” I ask.

Liam sits up, scooting closer to me like he’s anticipating some epic work of art. Then I turn it around and study his expression.

At first, his eyes are lit with anticipation. Upon seeing said “artwork”, his lips fold in and his face tenses like he’s trying hard not to laugh. Finally, his expression falls soft, admiring, when he says, “It’s not that bad.”

I let the artwork fall to my lap and laugh. “Not bad? A two-year-old could’ve drawn better.”

He graces me with another louder than life laugh, and I eat it up.

“Okay. I concede you’re not artistic.”

---