“I believe you fell rather spectacularly just afterward,” he added, but not unkindly.
“That’s a point of contention. Your brother actually crashed into me.”
He smiled, and it made him seem suddenly very young and boyish. “I hope he apologized.”
“He did — eventually.” I shuffled a little closer until my hands brushed against the edge of the table. “You’re so like him.” It was those eyes — they were so unnatural. That they should exist in two different faces seemed unbelievable to me. “Luca, that is. I don’t mean to stare, but it’s really incredible.”
“Well,” he said, “we may be twins, but we’re not the same.”
I was only partly surprised by the revelation. Even though their similarities were startling, all of the Priestly brothers shared the same features, and this boy had an aura of innocence that Luca did not. He seemed sweet, and unblemished by whatever had made his twin such a resounding ass to be around.
“For one thing, he can’t maneuver a wheelchair half as well as I can.” He tapped the wheel beneath his right hand and released a wry smile. “And for another, I’m smarter.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He seemed appeased by my agreement. “I’m Sophie. But I said that already.”
“Hello, Sophie.” His smile was a beautiful sight. To think, Luca had the potential to look and act like this and yet he chose not to. “I’m Valentino.”
He shifted forward and picked up his pencil again, twirling it between his forefinger and thumb. My attention followed it, and I gasped as the sheets of paper came to life below me. I tried to study them all at once. “These are incredible.”
Valentino waved his hand over the sketches with a casualness that seemed out of place. They were stunning, and surely he could see that. And more than that, he should be owning his talent and agreeing with me. I used to think my father was good because he could draw Mickey Mouse, but this artwork was on a whole other level.
I raked my eyes over the drawings and stopped when I found a side profile of Nic. Drawn in pencil, careful shadows swooped across his creased brow line and gathered beneath his cheekbones. His lips were parted in concentration, his hair twisting in strands below his ear as he looked ahead, focusing on something out of frame.
“You make it seem so real.”
I glanced at Valentino. He was chewing on his lip, thinking. “I look for the qualities that aren’t always apparent at first,” he said. “The ones that define part of who we are and how we really feel deep down. I try to look below the surface.”
His voice started to bubble with passion, and his hands took on a life of their own. “This life is so complex that we rarely get to be the people we are truly meant to be. Instead, we wear masks and put up walls to keep from dealing with the fear of rejection, the feeling of regret, the very idea that someone may not love us for who we are deep in our core, that they might not understand the things that drive us. I want to study the realness of life, not the gloss. There is beauty everywhere; even in the dark, there is light, and that is the rarest kind of all.”
I watched the enthusiasm brighten his features. “I don’t know anyone who thinks and talks like that,” I admitted. “It’s … refreshing.”
“It’s the truth,” he said simply.
“Can I see the others?”
He laid his pencil down and wheeled his chair back. I draped the hoodie over the chair beside me and leaned across the table, balancing my weight on my palms.
There was a sketch of Gino and Dom playing a video game; they were sitting on the floor, their legs curled around them like they were little boys again. Controllers clutched in their hands, they were laughing with each other, their shoulders brushing, their heads thrown back toward the ceiling. Their eyes were crinkled at the sides and their noses were scrunched up in amusement. Dom was messing up Gino’s ponytail with his free hand.
“It’s like the perfect moment,” I breathed.
“Happiness,” said Valentino quietly, his eyes fixed on the scene.
I returned my gaze to Nic’s profile. His jaw was set, his expression focused.
“And that one is Determination,” Valentino added.
Beside the sketch of Nic there was a portrait of a woman standing in a kitchen. Her hands gripped the sides of the sink as she looked out the window in front of her. She was willowy and disheveled, dressed in a silken floor-length robe that pooled around her feet. Streaks of sunlight danced along the tip of her nose, and a spill of dark hair fell freely down her back. Her brows were creased at sharp angles. “Is this your mother?”
He nodded.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“She’s angry,” said Valentino dispassionately.
I reached out and pulled the next portrait toward me. Luca. He was sitting alone on a stoop, dressed in a black suit. His knees came up to his chest, supporting his elbows as he leaned forward. His shoulders were hunched, making his frame appear smaller, like Valentino’s. He was looking at the ground, at nothing, and his fingers were scraping through his hair, like he was trying to hurt himself.
I swallowed hard. It was difficult to look at it. I glanced at Valentino and found he wasn’t looking at it anymore, either.
“Pain?” I guessed quietly.
“Grief,” he replied.
“It must be difficult to look beneath the mask,” I said, my throat suddenly tight.
Valentino raised his chin. “No more difficult than it is to wear one.”
I pulled my hands back and straightened up as a wave of something unpleasant washed over me. I didn’t want to look at the portraits anymore. It was an uncomfortable feeling, staring into the darkest moments of someone’s soul without them knowing. “Do you think you wear a mask?”
“I’m wearing one right now.” Valentino smiled softly. “We both are.”
“It’s a sad thought.”