Page 89 of When Ben Loved Tim
I see a fold of knitted fabric and pull out a burnt-orange scarf. Tim takes one end and loops it around my neck before folding it over my chest to fill the spot the coat doesn’t cover.
“For the really cold days,” he says. “Although you look hot now.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, since I really am beginning to sweat.
“Thank you,” I say. “Umm… Just a sec. I wanna see for myself!”
I rush from the room to check the bathroom mirror and smile at my reflection. I look so classy! Tim joins me, his eyes half-lidded in the mirror. I turn to face him. He begins unwrapping me, first by untangling the scarf and then by undoing the coat’s buttons.
“I’m not your present,” I murmur. “You still have to open it.”
“But you’re all I want,” he replies.
I just about give into him, especially when his lips press against mine. But I can’t wait any longer. The anticipation is killing me. I take a step back and tie one end of my scarf around his wrist. “Follow me,” I say when leaving the room.
I lead him back to the tree, my anxiety increasing. I hope this doesn’t upset him. The wrapped gift I hand him is much humbler in size. Tim frees himself from the scarf and sits on the couch. I plop down next to him and hold my breath as the paper is torn away, revealing art supplies. He’s silent when sifting through watercolors, pencils, and tubes of paint.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” he asks.
My stomach sinks. It’s not the response I’d hoped for.
“I know you have your secrets,” I tell him, taking a deep breath. “I don’t always understand why. But wouldn’t it be nice if there was at least one person you could be completely open with? About everything. I can be that for you, Tim. When you’re ready.”
He looks over at me and swallows. Then he wraps an arm around me and pulls. I lean over as he cradles me against his chest. I can hear how rapidly his heart is beating. When he releases me, I catch the hint of an apology on his face, like he can’t promise anything.
“I love the painting you gave me,” I say, deciding that it might help if I go first. “Your art is amazing. I’ve seen more of it than you realize because um… I’ve peeked in your sketchbooks before.”
“Jesus, Benjamin!” he swears before shaking his head ruefully. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“You really shouldn’t,” I say, trying a smile. “Just because we’ve gotten this far, doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped stalking you.”
He laughs before his expression becomes more somber. “You really like my art?”
“Yes,” I assure him. “You’ve got real talent.”
He looks back down at the art supplies. “These are nice,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just one question.” Tim holds up a clear plastic tube with a brush attached to the end. “What the hell is this?”
I shrug. “I told the guy at the art supply store that you like to draw and paint. He says that thing will let you paint in your sketchbook. The watercolors go with it, but those are weird too, since they look more like little dried cakes.”
“No way…” Tim says, mostly to himself as he squeezes the strange brush experimentally. A wild grin breaks out over his face. “No fucking way!”
He leaps to his feet without explanation. When he comes back, he’s got the strange brush in one hand and a sketchbook in the other. “I mostly like to paint,” he says. “That’s my medium. All this sketching and drawing stuff is like, I dunno, jacking off instead of getting laid. I wouldn’t want to go without, but it’s just to tide me over. Painting makes a big mess. You need lots of space. But this…” He holds up the strange brush and squeezes, water dripping out of the plastic reservoir which has now been filled. “This is a goddamn game changer!”
“Okay,” I say, not truly understanding what he’s so excited about. I just love that he’s talking so openly about his creative side.
“I’ve gotta try it out,” he says. “Uh…” He sets everything down, grabs my hand, and pulls me to my feet. He positions me facing the couch, and after checking the now-dark window, angles me toward the tree. “Stay right there. Okay?”
“Sure!”
I’m grinning from ear to ear as he grabs his sketchbook and plops down on the couch. He takes one of the pencils I gave him. Then his attention alternates between me and whatever he sees on the page. Tim’s expression is open as he works, his thick eyebrows raised as if to take in more of me before he looks down again, his hand moving in a blur. Before long he tosses the pencil aside impatiently. He switches to the weird brush I gave him and starts messing with the water colors. His expression is apprehensive as he works but only at first. When he glances up from the sketchbook, it’s with a smile.
“This is so cool,” he says.
“Can I see?” I ask, taking a step forward.
