Part 12 (1/2)
”Because he made sure you couldn't. It's what a.s.sholes like him do.” He pulls me against him and rests his chin on the top of my head. ”What he did is not your fault. Don't believe that lie.”
I nod against him. Finley always told me Chris was a d.i.c.k. But to hear that what he did isn't my fault? That's new.
”It was Finley who got you to draw again, wasn't it?” he asks.
”Yeah. She spent an entire paycheck on supplies for me. I didn't want to disappoint her.”
He points to the message I wrote. ”You thanked me for showing you color again. What does that mean?”
I let go of him and dry my eyes. Maverick's features have softened now, and this expression I can read. It's magenta-admiration.
”When I first started drawing, my pictures were bright and vibrant. Then the more I let-I mean, the more Chris controlled me, the dimmer they became. I didn't notice I'd stopped using color until my teacher mentioned it. Even then, I brushed it off as an artistic phase.” I flip through my sketchbook to the sunrise I did. ”And now...”
I don't finish, allowing Maverick to see for himself.
Maverick turns each page, and I know what he must see: the colors growing with intensity. Even the lightest, palest colors are there. The awe on his face fills me with a lively shade of canary.
He picks up the portrait. ”I'm black and white.”
”No, you're not.” I point to the golden bronze of his back. ”See? It's like you're glowing.”
He studies it for a moment. ”Oh, yeah.” Then he squints. c.o.c.ks his head to the side. ”Is the blanket gray?”
”Gray?” I peer at the material barley covering his b.u.t.t. ”That's moss.”
”Moss?”
”Yeah. Green with yellow and a touch of sable.”
”So ... green.”
I blink. ”Yes. It's green.”
Maverick chuckles. ”That's what you do, huh? Call pink 'salmon' and name other colors by fruit?”
”What? Rosewood isn't a fruit.”
”What color is rosewood then?”
”Rosewood. That is the color.”
”Yeah, but what's the real color?” Oh. There's a glint in his eye. He curls his lip in between his teeth too, waiting.
”Maverick!”
”I had to see how long it would take for salmon to appear on your cheeks. Twelve point six seconds.”
I cover my cheeks with my hands, but he removes them. ”I like color on you. Now, in what color family would I find rosewood?”
”It's deep shade of red.”
”All right. Later I hope to darken those salmon cheeks to rosewood.”
Chocolate irises burn into me, and I lose my breath for a moment. ”Scarlet.”
”What's scarlet?”
”What you're doing to me. What I see when I'm with you.”
His eyes flick down to the portrait. ”Not this?”
”No. That's what I see in you.”
Maverick takes a lock of my hair and slides it between his fingers. ”All right. So what do you see in me?”
I'm about to reply when I realize what my answer will mean. I won't be just vulnerable; I'll be completely exposed.
I bite the inside of my cheek. ”You're confident. Rea.s.suring. Pa.s.sionate and genuine.”
Maverick stares. My stomach twists at the silence.
But then he brings my mouth to his and kisses me. It's confident and rea.s.suring. Pa.s.sionate and genuine. And when he pulls away, I'm close to canary tears.
Maverick nods to my open sketchbook, to an unfinished drawing. ”What are you working on now?”
”Come here.” I lean to the side so he can have my view. ”See there, between the trees?”
”The beach chairs?”
”Yeah.”
”One is tipped over.”
”I know. It's beautiful.”
He hands me my pencil. ”Show me.”
Chapter 19.
Present Day 5:05 a.m.
”How are you feeling, Ali?”
This is the third time Finley has asked in the last twenty minutes, and I answer the same way I did the previous two times. ”I'm fine.”
”'Fine' is not a feeling. It's more of a state of being.”