Page 55 of Crimson Desires

I barely looked away from the pencils that I was examining. “Acid-free paper is treated in a way that prevents deterioration over time. Oh, and since we’ll be using hard graphite, I’d look for a sketchbook with less tooth.”

“Huh,” Jack said.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “What? I went to art school. I know this stuff.”

“I guess I didn’t realize that you actually learn stuff in art school.”

“What do you think we did?” I began plucking pencils off the shelf.

Jack shrugged. “Smoked cigarettes? Did pot? Complained about the government?”

I laughed. “None of that is mutually exclusive with genuine learning.” Satisfied with the pencils that I’d picked; I passed them to Jack. “Here. We’ll use these. All good quality, and a decent price.”

“Price doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “Are there nicer ones?”

“Sure, but they’re not that much nicer. Plus, I already feel bad about you buying this stuff for me,” I said.

“Nah. Let’s get the nice pencils,” Jack said. “Which ones are they?”

I pointed to a set of twelve artist pencils on the top shelf. “These are the nicest ones here. At least, the nicest ones that I’ve ever personally tested. But seriously. They’re like, sixty dollars. You don’t have to buy them.”

“Aster, why even date a rock star if you’re not going to let him buy nice things for you?” Jack asked.

I cringed. “We’re not dating.”

“We’re not in a relationship. But we are going on a date. Hence, dating,” Jack corrected. “Now, let me buy you the nice pencils, damn it.”

Apparently, earlier this morning, Jack had seen the merch mockups that Ava had made with my receipt paper drawing. And after our conversation last night, he’d decided that our date activity today would be going to the North Carolina Museum of Art and drawing together.

Jack’s thoughtfulness was not lost on me. I had thanked him no less than fifty times in the past hour.

It meant a lot that he wanted to do this with me. Especially since I knew that Jack probably wouldn’t have been able to tell a Basquiat from a Pollock.

With our supplies in hand, we checked out at the front register. Jack paid without batting an eyelash. I was about to thank him again, but he held up his hand and said, “Seriously, Aster. If you thank me one more time, I’m going to buy you the whole damn store.”

I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not, so I just held my tongue.

The North Carolina Museum of Art was stunning. At the risk of sounding like a snob, it didn’t compare to The Met in New York—but it was still charming. The building was clean and modern, and its collection of late 20th-century art was impressive.

Jack and I wandered around for a bit. I talked his ear off about the different works that I’d studied in my art history class, and about the artists that I was familiar with. At one point, I felt a little self-conscious that I was dominating the conversation, but Jack assured me that he was happy to listen.

“It’s nice to see you excited about something,” Jack said.

After touring the museum for a while, we found ourselves in a secluded room with benches. As we were both a bit tired from all the walking, we decided to crack out our sketchbooks. Jack looked around the room, his gaze settling on a large painting of a Greek goddess.

“I’m going to draw that one,” Jack said, opening his sketchbook and flipping to the first blank page.

I rolled my eyes. “You just want to draw that one because her boobs are out.”

“Yeah? And?” Jack raised an eyebrow. He sat down and grabbed a pencil. “Anyways, you’ll have to forgive me if my drawings look like ass. I’m not much of an artist.”

“I’m sure you’re not that bad.”

“Oh, just you wait.”

I sat down next to Jack. I picked a different painting to draw and got to work. Even though I was a bit rusty, my muscle memory kicked in. Drawing felt like riding a bike. No matter how long I went without doing it, I could never truly forget how to draw.

As I continued to carve out the lights and shadows of the painting, my pencil strokes got faster and more confident.

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