Page 121 of Faking All the Way
Chapter Forty-Three
Kat
I’m at my art station in the living room, surrounded by all my supplies. The expensive brushes Asher bought me are lined up in their holder, the bristles still perfect and clean.
I finally picked up a pencil for the first time in days after getting back from my grandmother’s house earlier this afternoon. Her words have been circling in my head, and I’ve been working on a single piece ever since I got back, which is both a comfort and torture rolled into one.
It’s the picture of Asher on the ice—the piece I started weeks ago as a secret gift for him, which is almost done now. Just a few finishing touches left.
I should put it away, should force myself to work on something else. But this is all my muse can focus on. This image of him, this moment I captured.
Memories of him keep flitting through my head as I work, unbidden and painful. His lopsided smile when he said something that made me laugh, that boyish quality that cameout when he was relaxed. His scent, woodsy and spicy and warm. The rough burn of his voice in my ear.
I swallow hard, my heart aching for him, tugging at my chest in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
Not wanting to rush the finicky little bits at the end, I finally decide to take a break for now, setting down my pen. My hand is cramping from gripping too tight, making the mostly healed cut on my palm hurt a little. I go upstairs, moving on autopilot, not really thinking about where I’m going or what I’m doing.
It’s starting to get dark out, and the sky outside my window is turning a deep blue-purple color, stars just starting to appear. I sit on the bed and pick up the little sketchpad I keep on my nightstand, the one I use for random doodles and ideas. Drawing something small, just trying to keep my hands busy. A tiny snowflake, intricate and delicate. Trying to get my groove back, to feel like the person I was before all this happened. To find my sense of self-worth again, the confidence my grandmother says I deserve.
As I’m straightening up from the sketchpad, movement in my periphery catches my eye.
I glance toward the guest house without meaning to, my heart doing that stupid automatic jump I can’t quite tamp down. My stomach swoops as I see Asher standing in the guest house bedroom window.
He’s looking directly at me, like he was waiting for me to look up.
Our gazes meet across the snowy distance between the buildings, and he holds up a piece of white cardboard with thick black lettering, big enough for me to read from here.
My breath catches in my throat as I read it.
I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.
He drops that sign, letting it fall to the floor. And immediately holds up another one, this one slightly smaller but the letters just as bold.
ALEXIS IS A LIAR.
I stand up without consciously deciding to, drawn to the window. Moving closer. My heart is pounding now, my pulse loud in my ears. I press one hand against the cold glass, my gaze locked on him as he lifts sign after sign. Each one with a message written in his bold, masculine handwriting. The same handwriting I’ve seen on notes he left me, on the grocery list he made once.
YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH.
The words hit me right in the chest. Right where it hurts most.
He flips to the next one without pausing.
YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL.
Then another.
YOU’RE SO FUCKING TALENTED.
Another.
YOU BELONG IN MY WORLD.
And another.
YOU’VE BECOME MY WHOLE WORLD.
My mouth falls open slightly, my heart thudding so hard now I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips. His gaze hasn’t left mine once as he’s switched from one sign to the next. Holding each one long enough for me to read it, to absorb it. Communicating with me across the distance just like we have via texts so many times over the past few weeks. But this is different. More real. More vulnerable.
