Page 48 of The Young & the Sinner

In the end,my effort to appear put together in the morning was all in vain. Mason came in the house for five minutes tops, squeezed my shoulder in a greeting that nearly put my heart on overdrive, and then left quietly with Max.

Considering how much effort I put into my looks this morning—to appear like I hadn’t put much effort into it—his appearance at the house was anticlimactic at best.

I frowned at their retreating backs, feeling a little regretful that I wouldn’t be going with them to buy furniture for Mason, but I really didn’t want to go to lunch, especially with Brody Frost, my celebrity crush for close to a year in my adolescence.

A little more than curious how Brody looked now, I searched him up online. I found out that he was twenty-nine years old, he was drafted to Colorado’s NHL team right out of college, before he was traded to the Blackhawks two years later. That was about the same time I discovered his existence and begged Max to buy the signed poster of him for me at the hockey game we went to. I was pretty mortified to think back to it now. I hoped Max would soon develop selective amnesia and forget all about my infatuation with the rising hockey star of Chicago at the time.

After feeling like my cheeks would fall off from embarrassment, I closed out all Brody-related tabs on the browser of my laptop and ended up searching for artwork for the next hour. But I couldn’t lie to myself and say I was doing it because I enjoyed looking at the artwork done by local artists. No, I was doing this because I wanted to find something for Mason’s place. I wanted him to always think about me when he hung up whatever it was that I was getting him.

And then I ran into K.H. Knight and my heart fluttered with excitement. The artist, gender unknown, debuted their first work two years ago. I ran into the painted mural in the worst part of Chicago when Lizzie and I took the bus downtown, because one of our favorite playwrights, Mark Salinger Ling, was putting on his newest play at the youth center to raise awareness for homeless teens.

The mural took up an entire brick wall that was partly decimated from either the weather, time, or humans. But that didn’t take away the magic of the mural. No, if anything, it enhanced it, giving the experience of something worldly, something much more important than the lives being lived by anyone who looked upon it.

It was a mural of a lady with black hair, her eyes filled with sorrow, and her mouth open in a silent scream. She appeared to be coming out a lotus flower, its petals wilted and dying, yet I didn’t feel all that hopeless looking at it, even if there was just something tragic about it all. I couldn’t look away. And just in the corner of the wall, small enough that not a lot people would notice, was the name K.H. Knight.

Many people could draw and paint, and they can do it well. But very few could make you feel insignificant with their art.

K.H. Knight was one of those rare gems.

I was instantly enamored with the artist’s work that first time I came across it. I took a picture of it, printed it out and framed it. It now hung proudly on my wall in my room, but the picture couldn’t do the mural justice.

I must have come back to that mural every day for two weeks after that, before the city finally put in an order to paint over it. And it felt like I was the only one heartbroken over its destruction.

It took seventeen months before K.H. Knight resurfaced again, and this time, on a local website for artists to put up and sell their work. But Knight didn’t sell their work that often. And even to this day, I still haven’t owned a K.H. Knight original. So, when I came across a painting of a hummingbird feeding from a tulip by Knight, I placed an order right away, despite the outrageous price.

It loaded and I anxiously waited, hoping it hadn’t sold before I bought it. And when my order finally came through, I climbed off the couch and jumped in excitement. Today was my lucky day. And the painting was due to arrive in five days.

Five long days until I could hold the painting in my hand. Five days to debate whether or not I wanted to give this rare find to Mason.

I sat down, thinking. I could always find something else, but any painting I bought for him after this purchased would feel empty. I guessed it all came down to how important I thought Mason was in my life. And so far, our interactions with each other were friendly at best, and distant and polite at worst.

Was I giving too much weight to this little attraction?

I shook my head. There was nothing little about my attraction toward Mason. If anything, it seemed to multiply on a daily basis.

I feared I might be setting myself up for a world of hurt later on, because even as I told myself not to hang onto the hope that Mason might feel for me the way I felt for him, the hope was still there, no matter how minuscular it might be.

The doorbell ringing took me out of my musing. A quick look at the clock read three o’clock. Max and Mason had been gone for most of the day, and I felt about as productive as a fruit fly.

I walked to the door and made the mistake of opening the door without checking the peephole. Lorenzo stood there, in his usual style, with his wavy auburn hair styled to perfection, his clothes wrinkle-free and on trend. The black sweater and dark jeans he wore really brought out his green eyes. Eyes that were focused intently on me, with something dark brewing in them.

I always felt like I had to look nothing but my best whenever we hung out, mostly because Lorenzo didn’t know the meaning of casual. Even his casual clothes screamed pretentious. And now, I was in front of him in one of Max’s old shirts and comfortable jeans. I wished I was still wearing the clothes I had on this morning when I was trying to impress Mason. But I’d changed out of them as soon as the men left.

I shifted awkwardly on my feet.

After what happened yesterday, both before and after work, I wasn’t sure how to act around him. “Hey,” I said.

He seemed unnaturally subdued. There was something different about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “Hey. Can I come in?”

I hesitated. “Um, Max isn’t home right now, and I don’t think he’d feel comfortable with me inviting you in.”

“Oh, come on, Olivia. Don’t be such a goody two-shoes all the time.”

He didn’t wait for my answer, instead pushing his way in. I had no choice but to move back. I could smell alcohol on him when he passed. I frowned at his retreating back, as he walked into the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge, making himself at home.

Closing the door behind me, I reluctantly locked it. There had always been something out of control about Lorenzo. And usually, I couldn’t get enough of the whole bad-boy vibe he put out, but today… the hair on the back of my neck rose, and I dragged my feet along, walking to him.

Lorenzo was sitting on the couch drinking Max’s beer. It was a bold move, and completely out of character because, despite his “fuck the world” attitude, Lorenzo was nothing but a meek little lamb in Max’s presence.

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