Page 26 of This

“Who’s that?” Steve flicks his eyes up.

Even though he doesn’t seem bothered by my disobedience, I feel guilty for potentially screwing up his creative process and lay the screen facedown on my leg.

“A friend from Phoenix.”

Reaching for a different color, he squints a little and goes quiet for a few minutes. “The one getting married?” he asks, bringing my attention back from a neon-pink-and-orange lighthouse hanging near the window.

“No.”

He follows the arc of the brush with his eyes, an eyebrow imitating the movement. “Yeah, with a burst like that, I doubted it was her. Here. Come look.”

I stretch quick to wake up my body and slide off the stool. Not used to playing muse, I get excited, floating on my way over to the grinning artist and his masterpiece. I imagine intense colors. Everything about me majestic as fuck and ready for a spot on the wall.

Except I round the easel to none of those things. Muted blues and grays and black swirl together, creating the image of—“A sad clown?”

I try to keep the disappointment off my face and out of my tone, but … Steve painted a sad fucking clown that doesn’t echo me in the least.

He stands, smiling despite my less than enthused reaction. “Give it a second.”

He moves me to the stool and pushes down on my shoulders until I sit. As he steps beside me, I sigh and reluctantly face the painting.

“Reallylook at it. Find yourself, Bennett.”

And the longer I look, the more I do. The blue in the eyes matches mine. The hint of doubt too. The lips are overdrawn and gray but mine, in a flat line of uncertainty. My hair is a dull beige, half-smooth and half-wavy, unable to decide which it wants to be or where, going in different directions. And I realize itisme. The way I felt while staring at the corner, stuck in my head with whatever wayward thought would trickle in. The constricting ache of the last several years in Phoenix and the restlessness of my last few days in Portland. All the discontent that swims around inside me spilled out in a few dark shades.

I point to the only part with vibrant colors. A tease of rainbow centered at the bottom, like a glow radiating from an object hidden off the edge of the canvas. “What’s that?”

Steve crosses his arms and tilts his head. “A bright spot.”

Little Stevie lands on the floor with athud, jumping out of his cat tree. Steve steps away to open the door for him, leaving me with myself. I examine his work a little longer before I snap a picture with my phone and send it to Dane without a message, curious if anyone else will see what I missed the first time.

“Well,” Steve says, coming over, “being the subject, you get the choice: sell it, hang it, or burn it.” He stops next to me, his head tilting again. “Just know, if you decide to burn it, I will descend into an artistic depression and might never lift a paintbrush again.”

I glance over, and his mouth has already curved into a smirk. “Temperamental artist,” I tease.

He laughs and bumps his hip into me. “I’ll hang it in your room after I do a few touch-ups.”

Leaving him to it, I spiral down the staircase back to my room. Little Stevie has already occupied my bed. Much to his displeasure, I crash down beside him.

“Deal with it,” I tell him.

While he shuffles farther over, my phone vibrates.

Dane:It looks just like you.

Also, Phoenix to San Francisco is a 10-day walk.

I smile and reply,You should drive then.

Nah,he sends,I think I’ll fly.

On Saturday, Dane blows offa golf game with his father. He pounds on the metal door shortly after I crawl out of the shower, having washed the tourist off me from work. On my way through the living room, I toss a blanket over Steve, who’s stretched across the couch in his briefs for what he calls acreative recharge.

So, a nap.

Dane stands across the threshold and sweeps his eyes over me. “You give me a clown fetish and don’t deliver? Why do I even bother with you?”

“The painting’s upstairs in my room if you need a minute.”

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