“Yes, you forgot a star and yes, you had eight,” I rush out. Desperate, my head whips around like a cartoon character’s. Not locating what I need, I dip my finger into the blue and drop three dots onto my arm. “Technically, Aires can have more than four stars, but the root of it is four. Only four.”
I gesture to the blank stretch of skin between the dots. “And you just didn’t forget one star. You forgot the biggest and brightest. You forgot the important one.”
He forgot Hamal, but an aching tug on my heart prevents me from speaking the name.
Hunter rests his fingers over his closed mouth and stares at my arm like it’s Michelangelo’s David. My heart beats hard twice. I painted on my arm—I forgot about my scars, and I’m drawing attention to them...
“That’s why you didn’t think I purposely left out the star,” Hunter says as if paint on extremely scarred arms is normal. “Why you said if I had meant for it to be missing I would have somehow let that missing piece be known.”
I wince. Freak of nature! “I promise this whole speaking-out thing is unusual for me.”
“I hope it’s not,” he says. “It’s what I like about you. You’ve got fire, Echo. Don’t apologize for it.”
I’ve got fire. My lips lift a little. “Noah’s the one that’s lit it.”
“Fire is there or it’s not. If anything, he probably showed you where to look. Don’t give him any more credit than that.” He cuts off any response by directing me to the canvas. “Tell me, are you painting four or three?”
It’s like he poured a bucket of water over my blaze. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve got plenty of time to figure it out. I’m not asking you to finish it in days.”
“I only have days,” I mutter, though I guess I could finish it from home, but the only reason I’m doing this is to impress him. I’d rather have the people of Munchkinland toss me into a tornado than do this painting for kicks.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
I dare to peek at him from the corner of my eye. Hunter picks up the stool and places it next to me. A nonverbal for me to sit, and I do. He remains standing, and my knees bounce.
“The other people in this program have spent months of their lives filling out applications and gathering portfolios for the opportunity I’m presenting to you.”
I check over my shoulder, and there’s no one there. Oh, heck, he’s talking to me.
“Study under me for the next year, Echo. We’re on a break, which is why it’s so disorganized at the moment, but in two weeks, I start teaching classes again.”
My pulse thuds in my ears. “I have a scholarship to college.”
“You’ll have a scholarship here. Most of my students do, but it’s a barter system. You’ll work in the coffee shop and the gallery twenty hours a week in exchange for studying under me. Most of the students find apartments together. If you still need extra money, I’ll pay you for anything you work over the twenty hours.”
My eyes dart in front of me, but I’m not finding what I’m looking for. Hunter Gray just asked me to study under him. The room shakes, though it’s more my hands than the floor. The best artist in the country believes in my work enough that he invited me to study under him.
“On top of that,” he continues. “If you can get this painting in decent shape before next week, I want to show it at the Denver Art Festival under my work-in-progress section along with those ten sketches of hands you’ve done.”
I snap out of my stupor. “That was in my sketchbook.” And I haven’t shown you that.
He points to the floor where I had left my sketchbook for anyone to peruse. How would he respond if he knew those are Noah’s hands? Drawn while he slept beside me. Drawn after he had caressed me so tenderly in the night.
“What do you say, Echo?”
What do I say? “Yes.”
A huge smile brightens his face. “Good.”
Hunter pulls out a key from his back pocket and lays it on the easel. “This is yours. Come and go as you please. I’m assuming you’ll need to return home and collect some stuff, but I expect you back here by the start of session in two weeks.”
Go home...then return here... Noah...my stomach plummets. “I mean, no. I mean...I mean...” This would mean being separated from Noah. “I mean I can’t...”
“You’re saying no?”
“No,” I rush out. “I mean, I don’t know.” I rake my hand through my hair, pulling at the roots. What’s wrong with me? “I need time to think.”
“What’s there to think about? You’re going to college for art, right? Is their program better than studying underneath me?”
“No,” I admit weakly. “But...” But Noah won’t be here. There’s no doubt he’ll go home. The state’s paying for his education. His entire world—his brothers are back there. There’s no way he’d cut off ties and leave his home to be with me.
“But what?”
“My father...” I whisper. But my father is moving. Moving forward, moving out, moving on. Our relationship works better via phone than it ever did in person. “I...told him I would try business classes as well as art because I was good at it...the business stuff as well as the art.”