Page 44 of It's a Love Story

“So what’s crazy?” he asks and snaps me out of it.

I laugh a little and rest my head on my knees. “I think I might be relaxed.”

“Perfect time to paint,” he says and places the thermos cap of water in front of me. I dip the paintbrush and make an oval of blue, but the oval won’t stay put, there’s too much water mixed in and it starts to bleed. It’s like the pond is leaking.

“Can I?” he asks. He has a bit of green on his paintbrush and he’s eyeing my painting.

“Sure,” I say. He scoots closer to me and our knees touch. Our knees press together as he reaches between my legs to paint, his arm on my thigh. That delicious hug in the alley has broken the seal between us. We’re allowed to touch now, and at every point of contact, my skin tingles like it’s waking up. I steady my breath and watch him add vague, watery trees behind the pond. The bottom of the greenery blends into the edges of the pond, and instead of looking like a hot mess, it looks like we’re seeing it from a distance. He rinses his brush and dips it in red, dotting the field with poppies while his forearm rests on my thigh. I watch his face as he paints, just inches from mine, his eyebrows knitted together and his lashes in profile. I feel like he’s let me into his private world, the one where he is entirely in his senses. He turns and catches me watching. His eyes smile and mine dip to his mouth. He notices and leans in a breath closer.

“It’s your turn,” he says.

“What?” I think I’m holding my breath.

He releases my eyes and looks down at the painting. “Fill in the bottom, make it sort of earthy.”

“I don’t know how,” I say.

The two inches beyond Dan’s lips are like a vortex pulling me in. “That’s the fun of it though,” he says. “You get it started, and then the paint’s going to do what it’s going to do. It just sort of takes over.”

“Like a laugh,” I say.

“I guess. I was thinking of a kiss.” He looks away, squinting against the sun.

“What?” I am sure I’m delirious and deeply dehydrated because I think he just said something about a kiss. Out loud.

“A kiss is like that. I mean, if it takes. Sometimes a kiss doesn’t go anywhere. But sometimes it starts and makes decisions all on its own.” He’s looking at my mouth as he says it, and I wonder if he’s imagining the same kiss I am.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say and dip my paintbrush into the brown. “And I will admit, because I am relaxed and maybe sun-drunk, that the kiss inThe Notebookwas a great one. The one in the rain?”

“Oh, I remember it,” he says. I’m looking at our painting, but I can feel his eyes on me.

“That movie came out when I was twelve, and I remember thinking, wow, I hope that’s what kissing is.” I turn toward him and his eyes are heavy on mine.

“And has it been?”

“Nope,” I say. My heart is daring him to lean in, just a bit, and show me that kiss. But it’s also beating like I’m about to jump out of a plane. My want and my fear are in their usual death match, and he smiles at me in the most tender way. It pulls at my heart and reminds me how easily I can be crushed. I turn back to our painting. The earth beneath the pond is too dark, so I add water to the brown to lighten it. Dan covers my hand with his and guides me to paint short brushstrokes to add texture to the earth. His fingers on mine, like they belong there, and the way he’s inviting me to create something with him, it’s all too much.

I say, “I think if I was from here, I’d stay.” He takes his hand away, and I hate myself for breaking that moment. I rinse my brush and take a little yellow to add the grasses.

“You’d think,” he says.

“So why LA? You could have worked in film in New York?”

“Yeah, I always thought I might go to LA at some point, but it all accelerated when Aidan got married.” He gives me a long look, like he’s not sure if he should go on. “I brought a girl I’d been seeing for a while to the wedding, and she decided right then that she wanted to get married. Aidan looked good in a tux, so I would too, she said. Like we were exactly the same.”

I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit. There is something coming over me that is both unfamiliar and unsafe. I’m feeling all the Jennifer-at-the-bar vibes. She got to touch his chest enough times to consider marrying him. “How old were you?” I ask, and turn my traitorous face back to the painting.

“Twenty-four,” he says. “Suddenly I knew I had to get out of here to really start my life, separate from my family. I’m sure she’ll be there tonight. She always turns up. And wow, actually, we need to get going if we’re going to buy beer and I’m going to smell less sweaty.” He stands up and offers me a hand. It’s safe to say I’ve had too much physical activity today. A run and a boat ride and a long bike ride and a hike up a hill. That’s probably what’s making me delirious. That’s probably why I keep holding on to his hand for unnecessary seconds while we stand there looking at our painting. I liked making something with him. I liked the feel of his forearm pressed against my inner thigh. I like the way I can’t tell which strokes were his and which ones were mine. I hope we get to make this movie and that it’s exactly like this.

“Thank you,” I say. For showing me something new. For helping me get relaxed enough to make art.

“You’re welcome,” he says. We’re just standing there looking at each other. “Let’s get this home safely.” He drops my hand, takes the painting from me, and places it in my bike’s basket with exaggerated care.

We bike back to his house in silence, and I take a shower sitting down. That’s how tired my body is. I wash my hair and brush it out and climb into bed for a nap. I have a missed text from Clem: Found him yet?

For a second, I don’t know who she’s talking about.

I reply: We almost did and I kind of freaked out. And Dan held me in an alley

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