Page 43 of Most Valuable Player
Cameron crawls over me to slip into the opposite side of the bed, his corded football muscles shifting here there and everywhere. He splays out on his back beneath the comforter, the heat of his body a mere foot from mine. I only have a full-size mattress, which could fit two lanky people without issue, but it’s different having a bulky guy with a broad wingspan beside me.
I watch the ceiling swim, keeping my eyes anchored on a little divot to keep from getting dizzy. Then my phone buzzes, and I reach out, too tempted not to look.
“You like photography?” Cameron asks.
My hand pauses midair. I tilt my head sideways in confusion.
“You have a fancy camera,” he points out. “And a guitar. And a paint set. Did you make these pictures on your walls? How can you say you’re boring when you can do shit like that?”
He sounds so sincere that I burst into giggles. I squirm onto my side so I can peer at him through the dark. “Those pictures were given to me by artists since I watch the gallery for them sometimes. I’m not talented enough to make my own pictures.”
“What’s the canvas and paint supplies for?” he asks.
“They’re dried out. Haven’t used them in a while.”
“Why?”
I’m not sure why he’s pushing so hard. Does he feel that awkwardlying in silence? “I’m not very good,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t have an eye for it. Same goes for the camera. None of my pictures are worth taking. The guitar is…” I clear my throat, wishing my lungs would open so I wouldn’t feel like I’m gasping for air. “I thought it would be fun, but I’m useless with it.”
“That picture you started painting looks good, though.” Cameron furrows his brows. “The silhouette of a tree against the sunset. Why stop halfway through?”
The compliment burns my cheekbones. I almost want to turn and assess it—is it better than I remember? “The branches were too thick and the colors didn’t blend,” I say mechanically. “Someone pointed out that the lines were uneven because my hands are too shaky. Because of all the coffee. Which also applies to photography and guitar.”
That should be explanation enough, but he stares like I’ve only further bewildered him. “I’m not an artsy guy, but I didn’t notice uneven lines,” he says. “Besides, isn’t the point of hobbies to have fun?”
“It’s not fun when you realize how bad you are,” I mumble.
“Well, if you want to get good at something, you should put your entire ass into practicing or you’ll be disappointed,” he snaps. “It’s like working out. You won’t be ripped after the first set of curls—why are you laughing? I’m being so serious.”
I’m laughing hard enough that my stomach is cramping. I clutch my abdomen with one palm and shield my face with the other. “I know you’re serious, and that’s the tragedy of it all,” I choke out.
“You’re drunk. Go to sleep.”
“Yes. And no.”
He wrenches his pillow from beneath his head and thwacks me. “All I’m saying is that your painting looks great and you should finish it, but also if you don’t like the picture but still enjoy painting then you should practice until it looks the way you want.”
The words tumble out of his mouth in a disorienting rush thatmakes me feel like my head is spinning. Somehow, I manage to decipher them, and my heart warms. “You really think it looks okay?” I whisper.
“Yeah. Call me whatever, but I’m not a liar.” He clears his throat. “I used to spend half my free time painting rocks when I was a kid, and I can promise you none of them look nearly as good as the picture you started. You have talent.”
He tries to say this indifferently, but there’s a level of strain behind his words that makes me feel like he either had to choke them out, or he unsuccessfully tried to hold them back. “Painting rocks?” I ask with a tiny smile.
He shrugs. Apparently not willing to elaborate.
“What did you paint on them?” I press anyway, because I want to know more about such a strangely cute fact.
“Forget you heard that.”
“Impossible. It’s permanently tattooed to my brain now. ‘Big beef-brained jock Cameron Morelli likes to paint rocks.’ ”
“Used to!” he croaks defensively.
I think, if he was my boyfriend, I would probably try to kiss the mortification off his face. “Please tell me you painted eyes and a mustache on one of them,” I plead.
He opens his mouth to yell at me. Then snaps it shut.
“Oh my God, youdid,” I breathe, and I can’t stop myself from laughing again, tossing my hands up over my face. “Do you still have it? Please, can I buy it from you? I promise I’ll put it on my nightstand so I can cherish it every day.”
