Page 41 of Partnering with the Artist

I pull away. I’d really rather not talk about what compelled me to do that one.

She asks, “Is…most of this your art?”

“It’s all my art. I did it myself.”

Her eyes widen.

I give her my back. “See? Couldn’t reach most of this.” Only a few spinning galaxies melded with flower petals fall over my shoulders, and I had to fumble my way through those in the mirror.

“But…” she begins, “aren’t you right handed?”

“Ambidextrous, actually.”

“That’s incredible. Why don’t you ever show any of this? It’s beautiful.”

Being the margin of a homework assignment is not entirelybeautiful. And neither is displaying my personal brand of self-harm, I don’t think. My parents had such a strict vision for me and such high expectations. They wanted me to be perfect, my art to be flawless…

But perfection achieved through anything less than love results in little more than an empty chasm—devoid of emotion, opinion,personality. There was a time, before they died, when I didn’t remember how to frown. I’d wake up with a soft smile on my face, and no matter what happened, it remained etched into my features.

They say healing is a journey.

But, man, am I tired of walking uphill.

Containing herself when I refuse to answer her question, Maelin begins measuring, jotting down the numbers, murmuring, “I did think it strange of you to wear all black and long sleeves in the summer.” She drops into a crouch. “It must be hard, hiding them. Would covering them with makeup be too much effort?”

Unbidden heat crawls up my neck. “I’m…not a fan of hidinganything with makeup these days. That’s…something Viktor used to do. To cover the bruises. Whenever our parents would hit us.”

Shaken, her gaze meets mine, hands positioned against my thigh, getting my inseam.

My mind blanks on a swear.

Pity erupts, tangoing with obliviousness. “That’s horrible,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

They were horrible. This, however, is also a little horrible. What’s the difference? I can’t figure it out. My body seems to be breaking right now, too, but I’m not sure I want this to end.

I can’t swallow.

I can’t think.

I don’t understand what’s going on.

She’s beautiful. So what?

I’ve seen beautiful women en masse with far fewer fluttery dresses covering far more ample curves. It’s the curves and the skin that are supposed to turn my brain off like this, right? I… I don’t understand. I don’t understand attraction. Where it comes from, what todowith it.

Assuming this sensation is actually attraction. Right now it feels an awful lot likedread.

Maelin finishes measuring.

She gets off the floor.

I still cannot breathe.

As she returns to her craft cabinet, beaming, I lose the ability to remain on my feet. Carefully, I back myself toward the bed and sink into the plush. Watching her. Entranced. Helpless.

This is Viktor’s fault. He put nasty thoughts in my skull.

A week and days is no time tofall in lovewith a person. We’ve been on one mock date and one trip full of errands. She’s still terribly timid around me. I can’t have seen who she is at a depth that would matter for real affection to bloom.

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