Page 62 of Beyond the Lines
“I’m fine, Declan,” I snap, more harshly than I intended. “I’m just eager to get this over with.”
He goes quiet, and I risk a glance up. He’s watching me with those intense blue eyes, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. A droplet of water falls from his hair and onto his collarbone, sliding down beneath the collar of his shirt. I follow its path until I realize what I’m doing and jerk my gaze away.
“Look,” he says after a moment, “I know this isn’t ideal for either of us, but we need to make it work.
I feel him looking at me, wanting to say more to me, but I don’t want him to say it. So I unzip my messenger bag,extracting a leather notebook with multicolored tabs sticking out at various angles. I flip to a page marked with a bright yellow Post-it.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, adopting a professional tone, “that we should try different styles for each of the five drawings before settling on one for the final.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Different styles?”
I nod. “For the first two, we could mimic Surdam and Gordon’s techniques.”
Declan stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.
“What?” I ask, feeling defensive, my hackles suddenly back up.
“Uh, just…” He shifts in his seat. “How did you know they’re my favorites?”
My face heats up. “You told me. At the diner,” I say, like it should be obvious.
His brow furrows. “That was two weeks ago.”
“So?” I say, lifting my chin. “I listen to my friends…”
“Apparently.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “We’re friends now?”
“No, I just thought we were,” I say, cold. “Because I also tell them the truth…”
He visibly sags. “Cool.”
I press on before I can dwell on how that hint of a smile a moment ago made my stomach flutter. “For the third piece, I thought we could try Holly Coulis…”
“Her bold colors and clean lines would be a nice contrast…” he says, his voice flat, almost sad. “Your favorite, right?”
“Whatever,” I say. I should not find it charming that we both remember our conversation in such detail. “It wasn’t that difficult toremember.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table. “What about the last two drawings?”
I pull out another color-coded sheet. “Well, I?—”
“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “You’ve planned those out too?”
“What’s wrong with being prepared?” I bristle. “Better than just winging it.”
He shrugs. “Maybe for the last two, we could just… do what feels right?”
“‘Do what feels right’ isn’t exactly a plan.”
“Not everything needs a detailed roadmap, Lea.” He taps my notebook with his finger. “Sometimes you need to be less strict with your art, let it breathe a little.”
“How would you know what I need to do with my art?” The words come out sharper than I intended.
He doesn’t flinch. “You told me. At the diner. Said you wished you could be more spontaneous and take more risks… like your grandmother…”
His words land like an uppercut, and I feel something warm and uncomfortable blooming in my chest. And, suddenly, my carefully constructed wall of anger develops a tiny crack. It’s disorienting, realizing he wasn’t just making polite conversation that night—he was listening and caring enough to remember.
“Fine,” I say, looking down at my notes. “For the last two, we can embrace the chaos, take some risk, and do what ‘feels right’.”
