Page 17 of Brushed and Buried
At eighteen, I met Vince. We were in high school on our last semester. For some reason, we never really saw each other around the campus. I never watched sports, and he’s not the type to get involved with my own kind of crowd. I imagined him being surrounded by jocks and cheerleaders, being one of them.
One day, he’d walked into my orbit, and something inside me snapped open. I drew him that night, hunched over my desk with a photo I’d snuck from someone’s phone. Obsessive, relentless, line after line until the paper tore at the edges. Vince was the first person who made me understand what it meant to have a muse. It wasn’t just capturing a face. It was chasing the electricity beneath the skin, the spark that made someone alive.
After high school, after everything that happened, I shoved that part of me into a locked box. Art school was supposed to be a clean slate, a huge deal, the kind of program other kids would’ve killed for. I worked harder than I ever had, pushed through critique after critique, bled myself into every medium they shoved in front of me. Oils, clay, digital. I excelled at all of it, like some performing seal of talent. They called me versatile. They called me brilliant. But I knew what was missing. The thing I’d been known for, the raw, alive portraits that stopped people in their tracks, was gone. My muse was gone.
In L.A., I tried to fake it. Commissions, posters, logos, and clean architectural sketches all paid the bills. But every time I reached for that spark, the page stayed cold. I told myself it was fine, that prodigies burn out, and the world forgets.
Except Holly never let me.
Earlier, when she first laid eyes on him, I caught the flicker in her expression, her eyes going wide, and a spark of recognition she couldn’t hide. Later, when the noise thinned and no one was listening, she slipped in close, her voice low and steady, and asked, “That’s him, isn’t it?”
I couldn’t answer; I didn’t need to. How could I deny it when she must have seen me sketch and paint the same profile over and over again the whole time since we met?
“We can go home if this is too much,” she said. “I’ll make an excuse, get us out. No one will know.”
Holly has always been sharper than I give her credit for. She noticed how I’d sit through football games on TV without ever rooting for a team. No jersey, no fist-pumping, just me parked there while the noise filled the apartment, the roar of the crowd swelling and breaking like surf, the clipped voices of commentators rattling off stats I didn’t care about. Sometimes the crash of helmets made my chest ache.
One night, she asked, gentle but direct, if there was something about the sport that held me. At first, I thought it was weird how she caught on to it. Why would she even think of asking that particular question without any context whatsoever? Then, I realized she must be one of those really insightful and observant ones. I wasn’t the athlete type, never had been, and I’d never told anyone what happened in high school. But with her, I did. She was the first to know that it wasn’t the game keeping me glued to the screen. It was the ghost of him, lingering in every play, every cheer. My heartbreak, replayed in endless loops of background noise.
She meant it. But she was in her element here, lit up by Trevor’s jokes, Becca’s warmth, and the easy flow of it all. I couldn’t take that from her. So I pushed it down, fixed on a grin, and told her I was fine.
Still, what are the odds, Vince being here of all places? It feels less like a coincidence and more like one of those movie cliches, the universe giving you a nudge in the ribs:Wake up. This is your moment.
I sharpen another pencil.
The graphite scratches faster now, lines darkening, crosshatching. I stop sketching gestures and start building. The page shifts from loose play to intent. I drag light across Vince’s cheekbone, shadows under his eye socket, that stubborn tilt of his chin. My hand knows the rhythm without thinking. It’s him, exactly as he was at eighteen, and also not. Older now, edges carved by time, steadiness in the way he carries himself.
My breath catches. For the first time since high school, I feel it. Not just drawing, but creating. The work hums under my fingers, alive in a way I thought I’d buried forever.
By the time I look up, the sky has gone from coral to indigo. The first stars prick the horizon. I close the pad gently, like sealing something fragile. My pulse is quick, skin buzzing. Inspiration, after all these years, feels reckless, like falling in love with danger.
Below, laughter rises again from the pool deck. I lean back in the chair, staring at the dark ocean, heart still racing. Tomorrow’s waiting. Vince is waiting, whether I admit it or not.
And for the first time in years, I don’t just feel alive. I feel like my own kind of artist again.
7
Adrian
Saturday morning breaks through the gauzy hotel curtains, pale and forgiving. It’s the kind of gold that softens the edges of everything it touches.
I don’t wake to silence. No, I wake to the insistent buzz of my phone, a string of messages spilling across the screen like I’ve somehow stumbled into a conversation that isn’t meant for me.
Trevor: Boat day! Don’t be late, Sunshine Boys.
I blink, trying to place myself in this new reality. A few nights ago, I was just a mistake on a booking form, a novelty rerouted into a room full of men who laughed at me, touched me, pulled me into their orbit without meaning to. I was just supposed to be a one-night amusement, tucked neatly into their pre-wedding chaos, forgotten by morning.
And yet here I am.
Now my number is in the group chat, and I’m one of the Sunshine Boys.
Another message pops up.
Lance: We’re not setting sail without you, Adrian. Plant that ass on deck ASAP.
I snort, pressing the heel of my hand over my eyes. Okay. Fine. Twist my arm.
Holly insists on sticking with me this morning, bless her, but I tell her to go. She’s made friends with Becca the way I’ve found myself drawn to Trevor and his friends, and for whatever reason, they want us along for the boat rides and the cocktails with ridiculous umbrellas. I want her to enjoy herself and not babysit me while I hover somewhere between guest and hired help. She hugs me quickly, promises to text, and disappears into the swirl of bridesmaids and laughter, leaving me lingering at the edge, uncertain where I fit.
