“He just texted. He’ll be here any minute.”
Connor leaned against the porch railing, waiting. I wanted to get back to writing.
“You can wait inside,” I offered.
“Trying to get rid of me?”
I shrugged.
“So, I hear you inspired some art.”
For a second, I thought he was talking about my writing, and my face went hot. Then I realized how stupid that was. Last time I checked, Connor wasn’t psychic.
“Rush told you about the painting?”
This time, Connor was the one who shrugged. We were both silent for a moment. Then he said, “Can I see it?”
That’s how Connor ended up in my bedroom, where I was pretty sure he’d never set foot before.
“I imagine Rush didn’t give it a good review,” I said.
Connor stepped close to the canvas. “It’s good, I think. Technically, at least.”
“You don’t sound very impressed.”
He laughed. “I like it just fine. Why are you getting defensive? Don’t you like it?”
“Yeah, I like it. I like that Enzo painted it for me. He said it’s supposed to represent the way I see the world.”
Connor continued to study the painting, which made me feel self-conscious, as if my mind were laid out in front of him.
“Enzo has this painting he did of Lizzie,” I said, not knowing why I was sharing but unable to stop myself. “Every time I went to his apartment, I saw the painting and thought about what it must feel like to be her. To be on someone’s mind so much that you were his muse.”
“And this time, you got to be his inspiration.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Only he didn’t paint you. At least, not the way he painted Lizzie.”
I was going to argue, but a sinking feeling crept into my stomach, the kind you get when you realize something that should have been obvious from the start. “No. I guess he didn’t.”
Connor was right. My painting was different. It wasn’t about seeing me for who I was; it was about being me. Enzo wanted to put on Hawthorn-glasses to view the world, because it was better than his own reality.
Connor glanced over at me, and I must have had a weird look on my face. “Hey, don’t get upset, Thorny. I was just talking. I don’t know anything about art.”
I looked at the painting for a long time. Suddenly, I hated its stupid surreal colors and all its little quirks. The painting was juvenile. It was naive. It was cute but not beautiful, not charming, not breathtaking like Lizzie’s. I hated the painting.
“I’m an idiot,” I said.
“What? Why?”
“When Enzo gave me the painting, I felt special. And it turns out it isn’t about me at all.”
“Sure it is,” Connor said.
“Not like Lizzie’s though. I won’t ever be her.”
“Why would you want to be?”
I turned away from Enzo’s painting. I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. “I just wanted to know what it felt like. To be so…I don’t know. Lovable, I guess.”
Connor chuckled dryly. “Lovable isn’t exactly the first word I’d use to describe Lizzie.”
“You’re just saying that,” I mumbled. It was nice of Connor to comfort me, but it didn’t change what we both knew was true—no one would ever look at me the way they looked at Lizzie Lovett.
“No, I’m not. Lizzie was…magnetic. But once you started talking to her, you realized there was no substance. She’s the kind of person who can be summed up in one sentence. You’re strange and complicated and sometimes really frustrating, but that’s what makes you interesting, Hawthorn. Doesn’t that mean something?”
I wanted to respond, but my mind was racing, and I couldn’t get my mouth to form words. No one had ever said anything like that to me before. Connor had listed everything I was insecure about and acted like they were good things.
“If I’m so interesting, why did Lizzie have guys lining up to date her?”
Connor shrugged and looked away from me. “Maybe Lizzie put herself out there more. Gave more guys a chance.”
I had put myself out there with Enzo though. I’d given him a million chances. He was the one who was conflicted. He was the one who pulled back from our kiss, who wasn’t available when I needed him, who painted a picture that practically screamed that I’d never be as good as Lizzie in his eyes.
I needed to talk to Enzo right away. I wasn’t going to let him dodge my questions anymore. Maybe Lizzie didn’t like to analyze feelings, but I needed some answers.
“What are you thinking?” Connor asked, and I realized I’d been lost in my thoughts for a long time.
“I need to find my car keys,” I said.
? ? ?
I got to Enzo’s apartment as the sun was setting. I had to knock on the door three times before he answered. His hair was messier than usual, and his clothes were wrinkled.
“Hawthorn. I was sleeping.”
“Now? I guess artists don’t restrict themselves to schedules, huh?”
“Is something wrong?”