Part 13 (2/2)

I contemplate the angles, creating a picture of a single moment in time. Nothing stays the same, and if you don't capture the whole image in your mind quickly, it changes in a second.

But not today. Maverick holds perfectly still, nothing moving, nothing changing. Even the lighting remains consistently dim.

I shade in the eggplant bruising around his IV. The tape holding it down is tricky. The texture throws me, and I erase my first attempt. The second is better, good enough to move on to the tube. When the focal point of the drawing is finished, I start on the shadows. I add depth by adjusting the pressure I'm using against the paper and directing the reflection of the lighting until Maverick's hand resembles what it does in real life.

I study the finished product for a second with Finley peering over my shoulder. I hate that I can compare the representation with the real thing like this. Maverick shouldn't be a still.

”What do you think?” Finley asks softly.

”That I despise it,” I say, matching her tone. ”I hate how he has that tube stuck into his vein. I hate the unnatural tone of his skin. I hate the way he just lies there. It's like...” I look at her. ”It's like the calm before a storm.”

Finn nods.

”What if this is the end, Finn?”

”The end of what?”

”The end of us.”

”It's not, Ali. Maverick will fight with everything he has to get back to you.”

”What if that isn't enough?”

”Deep inside, do you really believe that?”

My gaze meets hers. She's determined, yet reserved, because she's here for me. To keep me strong, from going under. It doesn't matter if Maverick has it in him or not, only that I believe he does.

Hope has that kind of power.

I bob my head. ”Yeah, he does. Of course, he does.”

Finley nods with me.

”Now add color,” she says, handing me the bag of oil pencils she packed. ”A lot of blue. Blue is calming, right?”

I hesitate. I don't see color in my mind, and if I don't see it there, it won't be right on paper.

”Color,” Finley insists. She digs through the bag and hands me midnight blue.

I shake my head. ”Not calming.”

”Turquoise?”

”No. Lighter.”

She squints at the lettering. ”Air-ig-gr-ean? Who names these things?”

”Aegean. Do you want the easy answer or the complicated one?”

”Easy. Duh.”

”The company who made the pencils.”

She finds two more that I reject. ”How many blues are there?” Her attention snaps to me. ”Or are you stalling? Or just being finicky?”

Both, I think, but I don't say it. Finley is Finley, so I'll add color. I s.h.i.+ft through the pencils in the bag until I find glaucous. If I were painting, I'd add some lace white to soften it further. For now, though, this will have to do.

I barely touch the page as I skim the pencil over the paper. Normally I'd add color during the layering process, and since I'm not actually seeing the blue through the gray, I want a light hue.

Finley remains quiet, and when I'm finished, she frowns. I know what she's going to say before she says it, so I stop her before she speaks.

”I'm not pus.h.i.+ng you or anyone out. I'm just not seeing it inside me yet.”

”Isn't that the purpose of this?” she wonders.

”It can't be forced, Finn. I'm sorry.”

My attention moves to J.J. who walked in. ”Another blood draw,” she says.

I put my sketchbook aside to take Maverick's hand and hold it to my lips. I can't stand needles, but a few months ago, Mav told me he didn't mind them. A quick p.r.i.c.k, a count to ten, and it's over. Simple, he said.

”You're not the one getting p.r.i.c.ked,” I answered, holding my arm out to the technician.

”Come here.”

I closed my eyes and nuzzled against his chest. The needle went in, and I cringed.

”One. Two. Three. Four...” he counted, his voice soothing me. ”Ten.”

”All done,” the tech said as he pulled the needle out and pressed a cotton ball to the inside of my elbow.

Now, even though J.J. is drawing through a tube, I rest my head against Maverick's shoulder and whisper, ”One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

The clock reads 6:21 a.m. They said the first twenty-four hours are critical.

Five have pa.s.sed. There're too many to go.

Chapter 22.

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