Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Maybe it’s too soon to tell.”
“… I’m open to calling it whatever you want …”
“Are you sure?”
“A muse and artist relationship. A friendship. Friends with benefits. Friends with creative benefits. Two guys who totally aren’t each other’s type, yet found themselves in a situationship …”
“As long as we’re something, I don’t care what we call it,” says Quin, breathy and happy. “Makes no difference.”
“Why didn’t you show me the drawing?”
He smirks, glances down at my lips in thought, then shrugs coyly. “It’s not ready yet.”
“Not ready yet?”
“Nope. Needs a little touching up. Maybe … a second session tomorrow night.” He eyes me evilly.
I smirk. “You just want to torture me some more.”
“Maybe.”
“Haven’t you tortured me enough?”
“It’ll never be enough.”
“Are you absolutely sure I can’t reciprocate in any way at all?”
He meets my eyes. “Just hold me.”
I take hold of him right there, our naked bodies coming together under the sheets. The calming noise of the air conditioning kicking on fills our ears, joining the gentle cadence of our breaths. I gently stroke his back, smiling to myself, feeling like nothing in the world can touch us.
Chapter 15 - Quintin
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is our soundtrack of the day, setting an inspired mood in the classroom as we work. I keep taking a step back from my easel to get different angles of what I’m painting, ensuring the highlights sparkle just the right way I intend.
This process feels different lately, I’ve noticed. My heart is light and happy instead of troubled and frenzied, which I’ve not realized until now isn’t how I should feel every time I paint.
Everything looks so different.
Even the color blue.
Vertical strokes across the water to cast reflections.
The mix of golds and whites in the sand. Have I ever appreciated such colors before?
Twirls of my fan brush in the sky, teasing clouds out of the bristles like little friends showing up to play, as if I’ve never appreciated how free the clouds are until now.
I’m a totally different person.
“Interesting, Mr. Ruiz. Very interesting.”
His voice startles me. I stop my work and step aside to greet Professor Lawrence. “I … I didn’t see you there, sir.”
He squints as he observes my work, his hands clasped behind his back. His lips purse in thought. “Hmm … not usual for you …”
“I know. The bright sun. I usually do sunsets, but—”
“I meant the man on the beach.”
I peer at my painting, as if startled by his observation, then remember myself. “I was … inspired.”
“By someone in particular? Or just … beautiful men languidly basking in the sunlight, such as in this painting?”
I fight a blush. “I guess you could say it’s … someone in particular.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He comes closer to the easel and tilts his head. “There’s something personal here. It’s … exposed. Arresting. I noticed yesterday you were working on a piece with a man in the scene, too.”
“Yeah. It’s … what I seem to be painting lately.”
“A man has infiltrated your landscapes. Interesting.” He continues to stare at it. “It’s the same man, too.”
“Yes.”
“Last week, even. Thursday, I think. I saw your work from the other side of the room. You’ve been painting this man a lot lately. But it’s more than just his inclusion that has changed about you. It’s the scene itself. I’m struggling to put any words on how this setting makes me feel. It’s almost … too bright.”
“Too bright?”
“It’s not a criticism, Mr. Ruiz. I find the beauty to be blinding. It burns my heart. It makes me worried … yet excited for something. I am comfortable seeing this scene from a distance, but I wouldn’t dare come closer to it, even if the colors in your painting itself seem to invite me.” He steps back again, then nods. “Yes, I like it.”
I haven’t closed my mouth. I’m all over the place with whatever I’m feeling right now. “You like it …?”
“Don’t run away with that compliment just yet. You must keep at this. Whatever … this is.” He eyes me. “This man, this subject of yours … He is the vortex around which your summer showcase submission should be tethered. Did he break your heart, the man on the beach? I get a sense it’s unrequited, whatever it is you feel for this subject.”
Unrequited …? “Actually, he didn’t break my heart. I met him—” Is this an overshare? Is this a conversation I really want to have with my professor? “I met him a couple weekends ago. We … We really hit it off, actually.”
“Hmm.”
“Everyone had warned me to stay away, but I couldn’t. Apparently he’s got some undeserved reputation for being a heartbreaker. Everyone on the island even gave him the nickname ‘heart crusher’. But I see him more as a lost, sensitive, misunderstood soul who—”
“Dazzling title for your collection. Heart Crusher. Yes, I like it, run with that.”