“If you like that sort of thing.” When I glance up, his back is to the paintings. He’s looking right at me.
My skin heats up. I turn in circles, unsure where to look next, overwhelmed by the idea that I’m seeing everything Marcus sees and feels. There are faces and rivers and trees, and abstract explosions of color that seem like an expression of what thought might look like if you had to put it on paper. Finally, curiosity draws me toward the easel.
He clears his throat. “That one’s not finished . . .”
I stop.
He runs his hand through his hair and now I notice traces of paint dried on his skin. “I don’t mean you can’t look . . . it just isn’t very good.”
I raise my eyebrows. “If you don’t want me to—”
“You can.” He frowns. “It’s just not like the original.”
I come around the side of the canvas.
This girl has a face, but only just. There’s an arch of an eyebrow, a line of a nose, and just a hint of one side of her mouth. Her eyes are closed, and she seems closed. At first it looks like she’s simply sleeping, so deeply perhaps she wouldn’t hear if you yelled. But the look on her face is so remote, it makes me wonder. For a split second I think I must be looking at a dead girl—until I notice the colors. They’re streaming from her body in tones I could only describe as fear, hope, despair, beauty . . . wrapping around her, emanating from her. And that’s when I’m sure she couldn’t be more alive.
I notice the shape of her face now, a little like Dina’s, but without the freckles. Her hair is curly and dark. I gasp. Heat radiates off me just the way it seems to on the canvas, but what I’m looking at is so intimate, I feel like I should close my eyes. I never compared myself to Gretchen when it came to appearance. In some ways it’s easier having a best friend who looked the way she did. There’s no competition. You get used to not being seen. So I don’t know how to explain this. If this is how Marcus sees me.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He comes up behind me, so close if he wrapped his arms around my waist his body would shape to mine. He runs his hand down my arm and my skin ignites. I close my fingers over his, hold them in place, and forget anything else exists.
He sighs into my hair. “I guess I didn’t either.”
I turn to look at him and a flash of panic crosses his face, like he’s been caught with something he shouldn’t have. I hold his hand fast and he closes his eyes, his chest rises, and finally, his shoulders relax.
“I thought I could re-create it,” he murmurs. “It’s not the greatest copy.”
“Re-create what?” I stare at the portrait. “It’s stunning.”
“Gretchen destroyed the first one. It was one of the best things I’ve ever painted.” He opens his eyes, looking sidelong at the canvas. “This one’s okay.”
I turn back from the easel to look at his face. “What do you mean, she destroyed it?”
His eyes darken. “You’re the first person I’ve let in here since then—it seems kind of appropriate, since this is what set her off in the first place.”
“This painting?”
“The first one. I don’t know, I thought I was so careful, but I didn’t used to lock the door. I guess she saw something in it when she found it.”
I slide my hand out of his, stepping closer to the painting. If Gretchen saw this before they broke up . . . she’d have been upset to say the least.
But could she have thought I had any idea?
Marcus fidgets, collecting tubes of paint on the table, arranging them by color. “That video she made shows me flying into a rage, ready to kill her—and believe me, I wanted to—but what it doesn’t show is the rest of the room. She was sitting back, admiring the diptych when I found her. It was the only one she didn’t slash or throw paint on. I lost months of work.”
Something deep within me starts to quiver. Marcus seems too far away. Or maybe the tiny shed feels too big. I move to the table, take the paints out of his hands, and set them aside. He watches me, eyes dark and warm, but he barely moves. My body flashes hot. I open my mouth, but I don’t know how to say this, to allow myself this.
He casts his eyes down. “Sonia, what I said the other night, if you don’t feel—”
“No—yes. I do.”
I take his hand, and for one fleeting moment, I’m not sure what’s happening. Our fingers lace together. A mass of energy builds inside me, or maybe inside both of us. It spreads through our limbs, connecting us in a way I’ve never imagined possible. Not outside my head. I look into his eyes, my heart pounding, and then our lips crush together. His hands are in my hair, my hips press into his. We knock brushes and paints to the floor, almost upsetting the table, but neither of us lets go. My body trembles, my head is spinning. I have no idea what I’m doing, but here, now—this feels right.