Page 3 of Treehouse Whispers
Chapter 2
A week later, Benji had finally decided to accept the offer from the gallery. He didn’t know if anything would come of it, but as Jamie had said, it was worth a try if nothing else. The good thing was he didn’t need to show his face there unless he wanted to, and he definitely didn’t. As soon as he had made the decision, with Jamie’s help, Benji felt a weight lift from his shoulders, and he was able to make a plan to set it all in motion.
The gallery had requested five paintings from him. He stared at his collection over and over but, unfortunately, couldn’t decide which ones to send. Slumping his shoulders, he leaned back against the wall and slid to a crouch, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing a hand over his mouth. He stared across the room and sighed.
Checking his watch, Benji saw it was eleven and took out his phone to message Jamie, asking him for help.
Great news! I’ll be back around four so can come over then. Do you want me to ask my parents to help, too?
That might be a good idea. Get a wider opinion.
Not that I don’t trust you.
I do.
Benji stopped sending messages; he was digging himself a deeper hole.
Lol. I know you do. It was my idea, remember.
Benji blew out a breath, shoulders releasing their tension now that he knew he hadn’t offended Jamie. He should know Jamie by now, but, more often than not, his anxiety got the better of him.
Okay, good.
I’ll message Mum and Dad, see if they’re free.
Thank you.
Np
Wandering out of one of the spare bedrooms of the house, Benji entered another, this time a spare room-turned-studio. The space had lots of natural light due to the large bay window, which received the gorgeous yellow-orange rays of sunlight shining through it all day. He stood in front of his latest project, Jamie’s birthday present. It was coming along nicely and would be ready for his birthday the following week.
This was the first part of his regimen…standing and examining what he’d created thus far. It always managed to return him to the headspace he’d been in when he had finished his previous session. The same happened today. As he stood there, a sense of energy flowing through him, washing over him and, trance-like, he reached out for the paints, squeezing different colours onto his palette before grabbing a brush. In his hyper-focused state, his surroundings faded into the background.
In this room, he never sat while he painted; it gave him free and full range of movement. It was the reason why this room had no furniture except for a small table next to the easel and a cupboard on the far wall for storing his supplies when they weren’t in use. It meant he wouldn’t trip over anything when he was in the zone.
His hand began moving over the canvas, almost without his consent, but he’d learned to trust his movements, even the subconscious ones.
Benji was brazenly thrown from his work by his stomach growling at him. He took a breath and stared, another routine for him because being in the zone for any length of time could be tiring and disorientating. He sucked in another breath and put down the palette and brush to wipe his hands on a cloth from the table before drifting to the bathroom to wash. As usual, he had smears of different coloured paint on his face, neck and arms, as well as his hands, and he spent a good five or ten minutes cleaning it off.
He strode back into his studio and grabbed a sheet to cover the easel; it didn’t touch the canvas itself because the easel had a frame at the top to keep it away from the wet paint. Usually, he wouldn’t have bothered, but as Jamie was coming over later, he didn’t want him inadvertently seeing his gift. Jamie understood he couldn’t see a work in progress. And Benji trusted him to keep his word. But, there was always a chance he might see it by accident, hence the cover.
Once done, Benji checked his phone, shocked to see it was nearly two-thirty. No wonder his stomach growled at him; he’d forgotten to set his alarm. He needed the alarm most days because he could easily paint all day long and forget to do the essential day-to-day things like eating and drinking. Several years ago, he remembered Jamie barging into the room, screaming for Benji, then stopping cold when he found him at the easel. Jamie had staggered back against the wall and slid until he was sitting, arms resting on his knees, breath coming fast. Benji had dropped his paints on the table and ran over to him.
“What’s the matter, Jamie?” Benji asked as he noticed Donovan entering.
Jamie gazed at Benji, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Fuck!” Benji had been taken aback because Jamie rarely swore.
“What’s wrong?”
“You,” was all he said as if it was explanation enough. Benji must’ve appeared confused because Jamie huffed a laugh and continued, “I’ve been texting and ringing for hours. You never answered. I was worried something had happened. I couldn’t get here before now because we’ve been driving home. And London seems a bloody long way away when you can’t get hold of someone who’s usually at the end of the phone.”
“Why would you be worried?”
“Benji, have you even looked at the time?”
He shook his head and checked his watch. It showed seven in the evening. He’d been painting since nine that morning and had not stopped. “I’ve been painting for ten hours! How…?”
“You were obviously in the zone. You need to start using an alarm. I bet you haven’t eaten all day. Or drank. Have you?” Jamie raised his eyebrows.
