Page 109 of When Ben Loved Tim
He sure is good at parrying! “Or you could invite me over for dinner. That way they can really get to know me.”
I hear the wooden sound of a paintbrush being set down. Tim physically lifts the easel and sets it aside so I’m no longer obscured, his gaze even. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“It’s not,” I say, shaking my head.
“You don’t understand.”
“I want to though.” I hop off the stool and walk to him. “Your family is part of who you are. It’s important.”
Tim meets me halfway. He places his hands on my shoulders, stoops to look me right in the eye, and says, “No.”
“Oh come on!” I plead. “I’m not going to blab about everything we’ve been doing together. You’ve had friends over before, right?”
“For sleepovers or to hang out with me. I’ve never asked my parents if Bryce can join us for a three-course meal and some polite conversation.”
“We’ll find a way to make it seem natural.”
Tim laughs and shakes his head. Then he guides me back to the stool. “I want my Valentine’s Day present. You promised to pose for me.”
“Okay.” I hop back on my perch and wait until he’s behind the easel again before saying, “Maybe that’s whatIwant as a present. Dinner with your parents.”
“Oh, I’m going to give you something,” Tim threatens in a way that makes me eager to serve. “Now let me work. Put on some music if you’re bored. You can sing for me.”
“I’m not your caged bird,” I grumble.
But of course I hop off the stool, turn on the radio, and do exactly what he wants… but only because it’s what I want too.
He resumes working. I wait for each glorious moment that he checks on me to capture some other detail and revel in being the focus of his attention, especially on the occasions when his gaze locks on to mine and lingers there. I don’t think he needs to be reminded of my eye color. When he looks at me like that, I’m convinced of his feelings for me. Other times I’m not so sure. I sure wouldn’t mind if he spelled it out.
I tried, over the past week. Tim was encouraging when listening to some of what I’d written previously. I thought a poem would make a nice Valentine’s Day present, but I couldn’t find the right words. Actually, that wasn’t the issue. I know exactly what I want to say to him. A poem is too long and cumbersome when it’s really quite simple.
“Hey,” I say before licking my lips.
“Yeah?”
I wait until Tim leans over to look at me, the breath short in my lungs, but it’s enough to speak three little words that have never felt so huge. “I love you.”
Tim stares, a battle playing out across his face. Surprise precedes a hint of panic before his chin quivers. Just when I think he’s about to burst into tears, Tim smiles, his eyes glistening as he walks over and takes my face in his paint-stained hands so he can kiss me. I practically melt into him, but I’m jarred out of my bliss when he grabs my hand and begins to pull.
“Come here,” he says, leading me toward the canvas. “It’s not done, but I still want to show you.”
My heart is thudding in excitement. I’ve dreaded confessing my feelings to him, no matter how obvious they must be. I didn’t know how he would react. It could have been too much for him, or worse, unrequited. Which might still be the case, because he didn’t say it back. I want him to. I’d give up all my worldly possessions just to hear him speak those words. Why didn’t he? That’s the social contract. If someone declares their love, the recipient is obligated to respond with words of their own. The kiss was nice—incredible actually—but I need more.
“Look.” Tim picks up the easel and sets it down again so it’s facing me. He remains at its side, studying my reaction.
My eyes dart to the canvas. The breath catches in my throat. The painting is of a handsome young man with waves of brown hair that tumble over his ears. His eyes are expressive and full of emotion, sensual lips curling in a subtle smile. He’s beautiful. As in,waytoo beautiful. “That’s not me,” I say. “I mean, he could be my brother but… I’m notthathot!”
“Yeah you are,” Tim says, looking between me and the canvas. “I got it just right.”
“Surely not!” I say, considering it again. “I mean, it’s a great painting. You did an amazing job. I only wished I looked that good.”
“That’s how I see you,” Tim says. Then he swallows. “Do you get it?”
Streaks of rainbow light cut across the canvas, as if cast by an unseen prism. The effect is so believable that I nearly glance around for the source. Tim has the skill to paint anything he wants. Convincingly. That includes me. And Ihaveseen the man in the painting before, but only in the mirror when the lighting was especially kind, or in a photo with a particularly good angle.
“That’s my Benjamin,” Tim says, his voice raw with emotion. “You’remy Benjamin.”
He pulls me into his arms, and while it’s not the words I wanted to hear, it is the answer I need.
