Kaleidoscope Hearts

Mike tucks his phone into his pocket and finally, for the first time, looks at me. He’s not shy about it either, he lets his gray eyes wander my body as if I’m some girl he’s about to hit on.

 

“Do I get to paint you?” he asks. I shake my head and laugh. He’s definitely ballsy. Mae does not seem impressed by his comment and rolls her eyes, putting her phone in her back pocket and crossing her hands over her chest.

 

“Okay,” I start. “First of all, we’re not painting people. Secondly, I can see you’re going to be trouble,” I say, pointing at Mike with a raised brow. “And I’m going to let it slide because I kind of like trouble . . . as long as you do not start hitting on me.” My back is turned toward the door, so I don’t know what other kids come in once I start talking, but I soldier on with my little speech even though I know I’ll probably have to repeat myself various times.

 

“That’s actually one of my rules. Yes, I have rules,” I say when Mike groans. “Rule number one: No hitting on your teacher. Rule number two: Keep your hands to yourself,” I look between Mike and Mae and am glad I said it when I catch her blush. “Rule number three: Respect everybody’s creativity. We all draw differently, and let’s be honest—not all of us draw well, me included. Please don’t bash each other’s paintings, or sculptures, or whatever else we do in here. And lastly, the art room is Vegas. In this room, we talk about anything and everything you want. We scream and throw paint at our canvas and nobody gets to judge us. Got it?”

 

All of them nod their heads slowly.

 

“I have a question,” Mae says, sitting in one of the stools set up in front of an easel. She adjusts the machine she’s carting around so that it’s out of the way and then looks at my expectant face. “You said you’re not a good drawer, but you’re a painter. Is there a difference?”

 

I smile at her question. “Huge difference. I’m best at making things with my hands. I usually use broken glass to make small sculptures.”

 

“Broken glass?” Mike asks, wide-eyed.

 

“Yup.”

 

“What do you make?” Danny asks.

 

“Hearts.”

 

“You make hearts out of broken glass?” Mae asks in a gasp.

 

I nod and turn around, my hands flying to my chest when I see Oliver leaning on the wall beside the door with his arms crossed over his chest. His green eyes light up in amusement as his mouth turns into a full-blown grin at the look on my face.

 

“What are you doing here?” I ask, still holding my thumping heart.

 

“All of my patients are in here right now.” He drops his arms and shrugs as he slips his hands into the pockets of his white coat.

 

“Oh,” I respond, blinking away from him and turning back to the kids. “Anyway, let me show you what I’m talking about.” I walk over to the box I brought over the other day, which is on the table beside Oliver. My arm brushes the front of his body as I reach across him, and I hear him intake a breath, which makes me do the same. I need to get a fucking grip around this guy. I grab the small box and walk to the other side of the room so I’m facing the group and can see who walks in. Gemma comes in and tells Oliver something quietly. I watch him nod before she walks out.

 

“Bathroom break,” he mouths in explanation when he catches me looking. I nod and open the box, carefully taking out the glass heart and the stand it’s on before placing it on the table.

 

“Oh my God,” Mae says, her blue eyes widening as they take it in. “You made that?”

 

“I did,” I say, smiling proudly. My eyes flicker to Oliver, who has a smile on his face. It makes my heart skip a beat, because it’s not the gorgeous one he uses to impress women. Instead, it’s a warm, comforting one. This one, he only offers when he agrees with something you said, or is proud of something you did. I turn my attention back to the heart and pick it up. It’s what we call a 3-D heart, since it’s not flat and has a circumference.

 

“That’s legit,” Mike says.

 

“It is really nice,” Danny agrees.

 

“Thank you. This is my specialty. Most artists have one thing that they’re known for. Warhol used blotted ink to create his signature Campbell’s soup and Marilyn Monroe images. Romero Britto uses eccentric colors, so when you look at one of his sculptures or paintings there’s no question as to who made it. Even if they were to make something different, you would have a hint letting you know that it’s theirs. My thing is hearts. I paint them . . . sculpt them . . . but this right here is my kaleidoscope heart. It’s my specialty.”

 

“Ohhh,” Mae says, as if what she’s been looking at just dawned on her. She reaches for it, but thinks better of it and drops her hands.

 

“Take it,” I say.

 

“No, I don’t want to break it. It’s too pretty.”

 

“Take it. You’re keeping it anyway. You might as well get used to holding it.”

 

Mae’s eyes widen. “I can keep this?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“But what if it breaks?” she asks, hesitantly lifting the heart from its stand. She turns it over and over, creating little rainbows of color throughout the room as the light bounces off of the glass.

 

“Well,” I say, raising my eyes to Oliver, who’s watching me intently. “It’s a heart. They always break at some point. Sooner or later someone will come along and shatter it anyway—might as well be you.” I pause, my heart beating wildly in my chest as Oliver’s gaze turns serious, and I find myself mesmerized by it, and trying to back my way out of its intensity. “Besides,” I continue, looking at Mae again. “I know the girl who made it. If it breaks, I can get you a new one.” I wink and clap my hands together. “Now let’s talk about paint!”

 

Oliver’s eyes burn holes into me for the next hour, but I refuse to look at him again. The kids paint different things: Mae a heart, Mike the LA Lakers logo, Danny a fish. They all get comfortable with the brush and the canvas in front of them. I make my way around the room, helping them perfect their strokes and learn how to control the weight of their hands. When the time comes for them to go back to their rooms, they thank me, and each says they are looking forward to their next session. I feel relieved and warm inside, which lasts all of three minutes before Oliver pushes himself away from the wall and walks to where I am busying myself cleaning up the room.

 

“Shattering hearts,” he comments, his teeth grinding. “It’s fitting.”

 

“They’re not shattering hearts, they’re kaleidoscope hearts,” I correct him.

 

“What’s the difference? You make them with broken pieces.”

 

I inch forward, standing close enough to feel his warm breath on my face, when I tilt my head to glare at him, my hands making tight balls at my sides.

 

“The difference is that it’s already broken, but I use the pieces to rebuild it. The difference is that the heart has a second chance, and maybe it’ll get broken again, but it’s already shattered, so maybe the fall won’t be as bad.”

 

His eyes search my face as if he’s looking for another answer. We stare at each other for a long time—long enough for my breath to quicken and my heart to begin to burn. Long enough for him to cup the back of my neck with his nimble fingers and pull my face to his abruptly, smashing his lips to mine. My resolve leaves me quickly, as my hands thread through his hair. I pull, begging him to come closer, as our tongues dance around each other in a passionate tango. He groans deeply into my mouth, and I feel it travel down my body to my pelvis, where it simmers. I can’t remember the last time I was kissed like this. I feel like I’m floating and drowning at the same time, taking a breath and being submerged with the next.

 

When we pull away, we’re both breathing heavily, and my face feels flushed. For a beat longer, I look at him—at his disheveled dark hair and the five o’clock shadow he rocks like nobody’s business. My gaze wanders over his plump lips and slightly crooked nose, to the shallow dimple on his chin and the intense green eyes that cast me under a spell so long ago. When the reality of our shared kiss catches up to me, it hits me quickly, like a foul ball out of nowhere, and I back away from him.

 

“That shouldn’t have happened,” I say, rushing past him before he can react. He doesn’t come after me, and that’s just as well, because even if a part of me wished he did, I didn’t expect him to. He never does.

 

 

 

 

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