Page 16 of Partnering with the Artist

Attention hogreminds me of Harry.

Struggling to ignore memories of Harry, I help Kaleb mix up the cheese, meat, and veggies into separate bowls, depending on who gets what. All the while, my thoughts drift to my ex and his harems and…my stupidity.

It’s been months since he broke up with me, but I’m still stalking his Leopard page. He chased me through a convention like a lunatic mere days ago, but thinking about him still hurts. I still feel like I’ve lost something huge. It’s like…sunk-cost fallacy.

I put so much time and effort and care andloveinto him. It’s hard to clean-cut those emotions now.

Even with all the proof that we weren’t good for each other, there’s still this shrinking feeling. This niggling sensation that I should haveknownbetter. I should have caught on before investing so much. I should have seen the selfishness and insanity and been the one to step back a long time ago.

My parents loved Harry, but—now that I’m thinking back on it with clearer vision—wasn’t he always different in front of my family than he was with just me? More…charming. More polite. Kinder.

The most negative thing my mother ever said about him before we broke up was in regard to how long it was taking for us to get married. Whenever she’d mention it, I’d cover for him. I’d explain howgood and responsiblehe was being by saving up for our wedding.

Now, I doubt he saved a penny. I doubt he was ever seriously planning to marry me.

After all, he proposed without a ring and said he’d save up for that, too.

All Harry’s ever given me is cheap words.

Six years together, seven in love.

And all I have to show for it is an amalgamation of hurt, angry, sick, confused feelings.

I want to cry and scream and break things.

But I can’t.

I just can’t.

So I won’t.

Chapter 6

?

Imperfect perfection.

Zakery

Three and a half days with a goddess in my bedroom and I’m still struggling on character sketches. Something about Maelin is so…soprofoundthat the simplicity of my usual art style does her no justice. She isn’t crafted for the thin, uniform lines of a comic strip.

She is fullness. Grace. Depth.

Exhaling, I pull my pen from my tablet and stare at the hyper-realistic unfinished portrait before me.

On her daybed, my muse has fallen asleep, phone dormant beside her, hands pillowed beneath her cheek. Soft lighting bathes her; softer breaths move her.

I whisper a swear.

I still can hardly capture her distinct elegance, but at the very least, this painting feels more right than my sketches have. Probably because her eyes are closed.

Heavens…those eyes.

I’m not close enough to paint every glass part of her irises with the detail they deserve, and I don’t think she’d be comfortable if I planted her on a stool a foot from me so I could glare into her eyes for hours on end. She’s still learning to trust me, learning that I’m not using her likeness for illicit images.

That she’s fallen asleep today feels like progress toward her feeling more comfortable around me, but it’s not exactly helpful where getting her eyes right is concerned.

I have no conceivable idea how I’ll transform her into a viablecomic strip lead if I can’t get over the idea that anything less than flawless strokes do her a disservice. I don’t have the time to paint her in such detail for every frame. Never minding that the world I see her inhabiting is filled with vast fantasy landscapes, elaborate creatures, and extravagant culture.

---