Page 69 of What Is Love
“How—?”
“We were all over at Reid’s watching a movie when you called. I saw Mac’s phone before she answered it. She left the room after she heard your voice and when she came back, she asked Wyatt for a ride home. Thing is, Wyatt never came back to Reid’s or home last night. He didn’t get in until this morning.”
I looked away from his all-seeing blue eyes and wiggled so he would set me down. As soon as my feet were on the ground, I said, “Wyatt spent the night in a hotel room with me.”
Roe didn’t immediately respond, as if he needed a few seconds to wrap his head around what I’d just said. “Did you sleep together?” He seemed more curious than upset, which was how I’d assumed he’d feel.
“As in actually sleep, like you and I did the night prior? Yes. If you’re asking if we had sex, no. He stayed with me so I wouldn’t be alone.”
“Why did you have to stay at a hotel last night?”
“Because…” For once I didn’t have a lie in the chamber, ready to fire. I had no idea what to say. “Because I can’t be home right now. I’ll be staying in a hotel for a few days.”
He knew I was avoiding answering and thankfully he didn’t push. “Why didn’t you call me?”
I sighed. “Despite what I want, it doesn’t change anything. It still doesn’t. I’ve just realized I can’t stay away, either.”
He frowned at that.
Before he could think more on what I’d said, I added, “Wyatt said he’d stay with me again tonight.”
“Did he?” he said, sounding a little irked. He stepped toward me, making me back right up against the fence again, and I had to fight not to wince. He grabbed the chain-link with both hands on either side of my head. “And how do I get invited?”
Chapter Eighteen
“You all right, Charlotte?”a voice asked, pulling me from a daze I hadn’t known I was in.
I blinked and the easel in front of me came into focus. On it was the beginning of what I’d thought I wanted my final drawing to be. Just the basic outline of a couple getting ready to kiss. I’d taken inspiration from the one Roe and I had shared at lunch. But as I’d been drawing, the bare bones of it coming together, I’d known it wasn’t right.
I didn’t know how long I had been sitting there, unsure how to proceed, but now students were leaving the class. I’d been so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t even heard the bell.
I turned toward the voice that had pulled me back to reality. Ezra Beckett was standing next to me, looking from my easel to me. “Are you all right?” he asked again as he readjusted the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder. He was very tall, with messy, wavy, mid-length brown hair that had natural golden highlights. His eyes were bright lime green with a dark rim bordering that pretty color and making it pop even more. On the tops of his cheeks and across his nose, he had a splash of freckles that were only a little bit darker than his naturally tan skin.
I nodded. “It’s not right.”
He looked back at my drawing. “What’s your final?”
“What’s yours?” I shot back.
The corner of my rival’s mouth lifted. “You don’t lack skill. So I can only deduce that it’s the subject you’re being challenged on. If you’re supposed to draw a passionate couple, then you’re nailing it, and I would encourage you to keep going.”
Passionate, not loving. I knew there was something that wasn’t right, but I couldn’t figure it out. Even as I stared at it now and looked over what I had done so far, I had no clue how to fix it. All I could say was, “Thank you, Ezra.”
He nodded before leaving. I worked quickly to clean up my area. As I was washing charcoal off my hands, Ms. Clark looked over my drawing still pinned to the easel.
I put up my smock and walked over to her. “It’s getting tossed,” I said.
She didn’t ask why. Instead, she faced me. “Might I suggest drawing love between a parent and child?”
I had no idea what that looked like, and I knew it was crazy, but I felt like she was aware of that, too. “Why did you give me the subject of love?” I regretted it the moment I asked. I’d used to be someone who was careful and disciplined. Now I didn’t recognize myself anymore.
There was this relief that flickered in her eyes and was quickly hidden with determination. She walked away to where we kept our portfolios. She grabbed mine and tilted her head toward the front of the class. “Let me show you.”
I quickly collected my things, tossed the drawing I had been working on in the trash, and followed her over to her desk. She began laying out some of my drawings, the first being the burnt butterfly. The next was of a bird with a broken wing. The one after that was of a woman’s back. The main focus was how visible her ribs were—how the skin looked like a thin sheet draped over bone. I had drawn it toward the beginning of the school yearwhen Mother had been really cracking down on me about my weight.
The butterfly, bird, and starving woman had been smaller drawings from timed challenges. The last one Ms. Clark pulled out was bigger and one that I had worked a long time on for an assignment. I had drawn a male guardian angel with large, tattered wings that looked plucked in some areas and cut up in others. He was kneeling in front of a recently dug grave while holding a child’s tiny shoe. The drooping of his shoulders, the tattered wings resting on the ground, and the lowering of his head all showed his guilt and failure.
“You draw pain and sadness like it is all you know,” she said, making my anxiety build. “The only time I’ve seen you draw something that wasn’t heartbreaking was when you drew that motorcycle last year.”
