Page 4 of Wet Paint

He studied me for a moment, then said, “I went on a trip to Vegas with a few close friends. Cliché, I know. But I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“How so?” I smiled at him, wanting to hear the whole story.God…I could listen to this man forever.

“They blindfolded me and took me to the airport. Before we boarded the plane, they put headphones on me so I wouldn’t hear the announcements before takeoff and landing. I practically sat in that airplane with only my senses of touch, taste, and smell. The latter was the worst because the friend who sat next to me kept eating horrible garlic chips.” He chuckled at the memory, his lips curling upward.

“So they kidnapped you?”

“Pretty much. But we had a good time.”

“I’m glad.” I smiled back, tilting my head to the side. “How long ago was that?”

I had always been curious about his age, but I knew he was somewhere in his thirties.

“Thirteen years ago.”

So he’s thirty-four. Good. That’s fine. That could work.

I bit my lower lip and looked back at his painting. It wasn’t finished, but I wasn’t sure how much longer he’d take. As artists, a painting could be finished anytime. We didn’t know it ourselves, and any brushstroke could be the last.

“I don’t want to bother you, but would you mind if I stayed?” I asked, my eyes meeting his again.

He thought about it, and at first, I was sure he would ask me to leave. Then, with the tiniest smile, he said, “I don’t mind. But you have to continue your painting.”

I pursed my lips. “I’m not sure I can paint right now.”

“Try. Sometimes, getting back to a painting in the most unexpected moments will help you finish it. It might lead you down a different path, but you just gotta try.”

His words hit me harder than they should’ve. He always said things that made me think long about them, even if they seemed like normal phrases at first. Like he was planting seeds in my mind that wouldn’t bloom until days later. This one, though…it rooted itself instantly. Maybe because I knew he wasn’t just talking about painting.

“Fine. I’ll try.” I turned around to head to my painting which had been there uncovered since I left earlier. Had he actually looked at it throughout the evening? He said he liked looking at it.

“Bring it over here,” he suggested, nodding to the empty easel next to his.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the painting with one hand, and a few brushes with the other to head over to him. I could use the paint he had already opened.

“Do you read?” I asked.

He looked at me with a raised brow. My random question surprised him. “Yes, I read.”

“Poetry?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. Why?”

“Because you always talk so poetically. It’s not a bad thing,” I assured him with a smile as I picked out a brush. “You just…have a way with words.”

He chuckled, his gaze fixed on his painting again. “I reflect on everything I want to say before I open my mouth. I think that’s something not many people do.”

“Well, they should.” I laughed softly and dipped my brush into the wet paint on his palette. “Some people, especially certain men, should definitely count to ten before they open their mouths.”

“Did you have bad experiences with guys?” he asked. Normally, I wouldn’t talk to guys about other guys, but Will wasn’t just a guy. Will was a man. My art teacher at college. A man I shouldn’t hang out with late at night at the studio. But he was a man who made me feel comfortable and heard.

I shrugged. “Indirectly. I never really dated anyone, to be honest. I just had a few guys be very disrespectful after they were told no.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, letting out a heavy sigh. “Men can be assholes.”

It didn’t surprise me that he truly felt sorry. Will was a feminist. I knew because he often told our class about the protests and marches supporting women he attended. He also once told us about his childhood, and how his parents often took him to several demonstrations all across the States. Safe to sayWill was raised by good people, which made him a good man, too.

And all of that didn’t make it one bit easier to stay away from him. I didn’t want to. He was like a safe space. A safeperson. One I always feel comfortable around.

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