Page 1 of Paint Me Love
1
Daniel
Thepaint’sstillwetwhen my phone buzzes on the windowsill. I nearly drop the brush—one wrong move and I’d smear the black of the claw all over the flowers I’ve been sweating over for days. Shit, that was close, especially when I’ve got less than a day to finish this commission or I’m out half the payment.
Biting my lip, I glance at the phone. It’shim, I just know it. The guy I met on that app I keep meaning to delete because it’s way too good at distracting me when I should be painting.
A deep breath, and I focus back on my canvas. Unfortunately, that doesn’t last long as curiosity wins and I lean over to pick up the phone anyway. My thumb hovers over the screen for a few moments as I will myself not to open the text. I fail.
Him: You should submit to that art competition. You could win it.
I frown. His messages always have this… deliberate quality, like he actually pauses to think before hitting send. Even now,it’s just a simple sentence, but it lands like it carries more weight than it should.
Me: How do you even know about that? Or did I mention I was considering it?
Him: I have my ways.
My stomach does this stupid little flip. Heat pools low, and my fingers twitch over the phone, itching to type something reckless. The brush feels heavier in my hand, the paint a little too thick, and I catch myself staring at the message again, my pulse stuttering at the thought of him and whatever this is becoming. I love and hate it when he’s cryptic like this.
It’s that damn app’s fault. Ugh. We’ve been texting for a while and it’s only getting worse. I still don’t know who he is, what he does, where he lives, how he looks. We’ve been chatting for days, but now that I think about it, it’s been mostly me telling him about myself. He’s just so good at leading the conversation, of saying the right things and getting me to share about myself, so I forget half the things I want to ask him.
Me: I dunno. I’ve never painted a mural.
Him: There’s a first time for everything.
I roll my eyes. So cheesy. It’s not that I don’t think my art is good—people commission me, after all. I’m just really bad at selling myself. What can I do? It’s weird. Having little to no online presence doesn’t help either, but the few times I tried, it just didn’t work out. Social media is too overwhelming, and people online are assholes for no reason. If I had the money, I’d just hire a social media manager or something, but I’m a long way away from being able to afford something like that.
Sigh. Talk about needing money to actually make money.
Me: You’ve only seen like, what? One of my paintings? How do you figure I even stand a chance?
Him: You are not wrong. But consider this: Justonepainting, and may I add that it was a work in progress, was enough to convince me you can win.
Ugh! My heart tries to jump out of my chest. I feel my cheeks burn. I’m such a goner. My eyes dart to my laptop. I can’t believe his smooth talking is enough to make me seriously consider applying.
But even if I fight it, I know I’ve already lost. This was just the last nail in the coffin. The application form has been filled out for days, waiting for me to just press the submit button. The deadline is tonight, so I decide I’m done pretending I’m not going to do it. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? They’ll say no, I’ll take a bit of a hit to my pride as an artist, and life will go on.
With a bit of trouble, I resist not responding to his last message. I also promise myself that I won’t get carried away anymore so that I can find out more about my mysterious guy. But first, I still need to finish this painting.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, it takes me until well into the morning to complete the final touches and bring the demonic creature with its earth-healing powers to life. The duller, muted colors of the furless wolf-like being make for a great contrast with the blues and greens of the forest around it, and the blooming flowers under its claws add a vibrant punch to the mix.
A knock behind me scares me to death. I nearly jump out of my skin. “Jesus!”
“I love it. Holy shit, you’ve outdone yourself, Dan. It’s amazing. My brother will be sooooo pleased, you’ve got no idea,” Molly, my best friend and impromptu commissions manager says, clapping her hands. “Momma is so proud.”
I love her, I do. Her brother, who’s an author, needed art done and she made sure he looked at my portfolio even if I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I’m just a small fry, and he hadquite a few big names he could pick from. But he did choose me, a nobody. I couldn’t believe it—my first big-time commission was to paint one of my favorite scenes from a book. It couldn’t have been better.
“Thanks. I hope he likes it.” I examine the painting one last time, put my brush down, and motion Molly over to the kitchen. It occupies the opposite side of my lounge, while this one I’ve turned into a DIY home art studio.
Just like the rest of my apartment, the furniture and appliances are old and worn-out, but they are mostly holding up. The beige cupboards squeak when I open them, the wooden counters are peeling, and the oven has definitely seen better days. But they do the job. As long as I have a roof over my head, food most days, and a bit of time to work on my art after I finish my part-time jobs, I’m happy.
Two mugs with hot chocolate later, she asks, “What are you working on next?”
We are both leaning against the cupboards, watching streaks of sunlight gradually brighten up my lounge. It must be past eight already, maybe even nearing nine. God, I really was up all night.
As if on cue, I yawn. Exhaustion suddenly surges through me, telling me I’m way past bedtime.
“I don’t know yet,” I confess, taking in my creation and stealing a glance at my phone, which is lying with the screen down on the desk near my easel.
