Truth in Watercolors (Truth Series Book 2) (14 page)

I nodded.

“Dayuuum.” Jordan’s voice echoed through the gym, and Wes pulled his hand away with his eyes following. “Wes has got skills.” He barked out a laugh, and Ridge joined in.

He smiled shyly and dropped his head in a slow shake. “Okay, boys,” he said walking back to them. “Time’s up here. How are you getting home?”

“Bus,” Jordan said leaning down to pick up his backpack.

“Not today. I’ll drive you guys home.” He held the door open as the boys passed through then turned and gave me one last soft and meaningful look. “Lock up behind me, ‘kay?” he asked. I nodded and waited for him to come back and say something more. But he didn’t.

I
knew he was watching me. I didn’t hear when he came in, but I felt it. I felt his eyes on me like a person felt the sun when it wrapped the fingers of its rays around their skin.

“I know you’re there,” I said wiping the brush on a towel.

“It’s past closing time, so I made sure to lock up.” The sound of his voice rolled through the empty space. “I see you took some artistic liberty while I was gone.” Wes said, and I cocked my eyebrow over at him before surveying my work. All I’d done was continue on the same wave pattern he’d been working on that morning.

“Well, I guess my brushstrokes loosened up as the day went on,” I said thinking maybe my exhaustion was showing through the paint. Wes stood next to me now, testing my inner strength because I wanted so badly to grab his hand and wrap it around my neck to finish where we had left off.

“Brushstrokes, my ass.” Wes rolled his eyes and nudged my shoulder with his. “It does look tight though, C. I like how the red complements the teal of the lower wave.” Red? Red.
RED?

“Red?” the word burst from my lips in the same manner as my heart had just exploded.

“Yeah.” Wes looked down at me confused, furrowed his eyebrows, but then nodded back to the apparently red wave. “This looks pretty badass. I see those two inspired you.” He winked at me, all the while I stared at him.

“But I used the cans of teal…” The name of the green color trailed off my lips when I realized my mistake. “I gave Jordan the can of teal this morning,” I said touching my fingers to my lips. I’d been so obsessive about putting the paint cans strategically around the room so that even when the color covered the labels, I’d still know what shade it was. Having the boys here this morning threw my routine, and my mind had been completely devoted to all things Wes.

This couldn’t be happening. I tried to swallow, but my throat had dried up. The large space surrounding me suddenly began to feel incredibly small. I turned to walk toward the back of the gym to gain some space from the noxious scent of paint. Red paint.

“Capri?” Wes asked from behind me, but I could barely hear him through the fumes. My body floated toward the back of the room with the floor blurring below me. A thick cloud of the stench closed in on me rapidly. It was everywhere. Taunting me.

What did I do? Stupid.

How could I have let this happen? Stupid.

I’d always been so careful, so hidden. Then I agreed to this. Stupid.

Stupid.

“Stupid.”

“Please tell me you just called me stupid and not yourself.” The timber of Wes’ voice dissipated the suffocating vapor.

I shook my head. “I’m so stupid.” This was all too familiar. I hadn’t slipped up since tenth grade when I’d turned in my realism portrait. My teacher had instructed us specifically to paint the bowl of fruit exactly as we had seen it. So, I did. I’d turned in a painting of yellow, blue, and brown. That was how I saw it. That was how I saw the world; yellow, blue, brown, and shades of white and gray. That was realism for me.

When my teacher returned our projects after grading, mine had a note on the back. He’d said that while he appreciated the rebellious nature of artists, he did not approve of my resistance to authority in not following the specific instructions of the assignment. He awarded me an F. To make things worse, he didn’t give me the letter, he wrote FAIL on my artwork.

“So stupid,” I repeated.

Wes’ hands were on my shoulders immediately, and he crouched down in front of me looking up into my eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on right now, but you are not stupid,” he commanded. He stood, and my head followed his upward movement.

He’d told me those exact words that day when he found me ripping apart my painting and stuffing it into the trashcan by the lunch quad. He had asked me why I was destroying it, so I told him honestly that I was stupid. He told me more earnestly than I had ever seen Wes up until that point that I was not stupid. He said I was brilliant, and talented, and beautiful, and that the piece of art I had just destroyed reflected all of that because when an artist created, they produced a part of their soul. Then he turned around and walked away, hopping the fence to ditch.

I turned my attention from the memory toward Wes’ eyes and on the conviction they seemed to hold.

Brilliant.

Talented.

Beautiful.

Breathe…

“I’m colorblind, Wes.” I said it. I know I did, but the frantic blood in my veins drowned out my hearing.

Wes’ head cocked to the side, and he raised a single eyebrow but didn’t say anything. At least his lips hadn’t moved. His hands did. They moved gently from my shoulders down toward my elbows.

“I’m colorblind,” I repeated in case I truly hadn’t spoken the words that, until now, had never fallen from my lips. “I don’t see color. Well, not all color.” I turned away from Wes, unable to witness his reaction.

“So—Wha—” Wes started but stopped himself. “Come’re,” he said taking my hand, and pulled me to the back wall. Wes sat up against it facing the mural and pulled me down next to him.

I leaned my head back against the wall and sighed. I was doing this. I was going to tell Wes about my colorblindness. No one knew except for my parents. Not even August.

When I had been diagnosed with colorblindness, I was just three years old, and my parents said they decided not to share my colorblindness with anyone. They told me in later years that they didn’t want me to be identified by an inability to see color, and they didn’t want me to be prejudged. I knew they had my best interests at heart, but that single decision created a sincere insecurity in me that had affected my entire life.

I’d often wondered if I wouldn’t feel as anxious about my colorless life if I hadn’t had an insatiable need to paint. If art was just an activity, and not the marrow of my bones, I’d be okay.

“Tell me about it,” Wes spoke gently.

“I’m red/green colorblind, so pigment that has those colors in it looks brown to me. Even though the grip of a paintbrush or pencil in my fingers steadies me, my inability to see color has always pushed me off balance. I feel like I’m constantly trying to prove to myself that I am an artist, but that I’m destined for failure because I will never be able to fully grasp the one thing that makes me whole. Sometimes I feel like, I don’t know, like a fake.” Wes sat up abruptly to refute me, I was certain, but I put my hand on his where it sat on the ground.

His fingers twitched, below my own, and then ever so slowly, he turned his hand around so that we were palm to palm. I waited for him to lace our fingers together, but he nodded for me to continue.

I breathed deeply. “I’m blank.” Wes’ fingers moved softly, dancing against the palm of my hand. They tickled circles onto the surface of my skin as if he were painting or drawing, adding an imagined depth to my meager being. “I don’t just wear a lot of white because I can’t screw any sort of matching up, I wear it because it feels the most like me.”

Wes’ fingers stopped. “You think you’re plain?” Wes asked but didn’t look at me. Instead, he cocked his head still facing the mural, and his fingers still hadn’t moved. I didn’t know why his still fingers against my palm mattered so much to me, but they did. I wanted them to move.

“Stand up,” Wes said suddenly rising to his feet. He turned around and gave me his hand.

“Okaaay,” I said placing mine in his. He led me by that hand that still craved his tickle, over to the cans of paint.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“I’ve never told another soul about me,” I said honestly. He nodded a singular quick nod because that was enough.

“Stand right here,” Wes said squinting up toward the fluorescent lighting. “Turn a little this way,” he directed, gripping my upper arms in his and adjusting me. He took a few careful steps back and sent his eyes on a path up and down my body though nothing about it was intimate. It was business. “Now take your shirt off.”

“Wha-at?” I stuttered. He folded his arms across his muscular chest and challenged me with his eyes. Damn him.

“You suck,” I said before grabbing the bottom of my white shirt, tearing it off over my head and dropping it next to me on the floor. Much like the tearing off of a Band-Aid, I waited for a sting of humiliation. It never came. What did come was a rushing heat from my head to my toes in the form of Wes’ stare.

“Sometimes. I like to bite, too,” he said tilting his head with a lopsided grin.

“Why am I shirtless?” I asked ignoring his attempt at flirting. Or maybe he was only being funny. It didn’t matter because all that mattered at that infinitesimal moment in time was that I needed to survive. I needed to keep standing when the grin on his face became caught between his teeth.

With one heavy step toward me, his entire body tilted in one direction. My knees trembled beneath me.

Step.

His chiseled frame rocked to the other side. My chest heaved rapidly beneath my satin bra.

Step.

He brought his hands together. His fingers stuttered against the roughness of his skin as he cracked each knuckle one by one. I brought my own hands together and wringed them together, my palms gliding against the dampness of my skin.

Step.

He leaned toward the floor. I sucked in a breath and pulled with it the taste of his clean scent that surged with his downward movement. The anticipation of what was about to happen was almost too much to bear. My stability wavered on faint knees.

I heard the unmistakable pop of the paint can lid and looked down at Wes.

“What are you doing?” I asked him in something embarrassingly close to a pant.

“I’m giving you your first tattoo.” He smirked up at me. “If you’re down?”

“Yes,” I immediately replied.
So way, way down.

Wes laughed easily. “Okay. Hold still.” My eyes followed the dip of two of his fingers into the rich texture of the paint. The drag of the liquid clinging to his fingers when he pulled them out kept him connected to the pigment.

“You’re using your fingers?” I squeaked.

Wes gulped heavily and nodded his answer.

I looked up toward the ceiling of the gym, focusing on the inhale and exhale of my breath. The nerves within me flickered irregularly and buzzed with the lights above me. I tugged my eyes closed, too overwhelmed to watch.

Cold fingers met my bare hip, bringing an instant stillness to my breath. They smeared in soft delicate circles across my waist gently kneading into my skin. My whole body tightened, grasping onto itself.

“I’ll never forget…” The rumble of Wes’ voice brought me back. “That day you came in from painting out in the rain.” He looked at me from under his thick lashes. He took his fingers from my skin to dip them into another can of paint. I missed his touch immediately. “Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” I whispered, shocked that he did, too. I’d never forgotten that night, and I imagined that I never would. It was the night of Ella’s funeral. The abnormality of the entire day was too much. Saying goodbye to such a small and innocent person who was taken before she ever had the chance to make a best friend, to fall in love, or to find her passion. It was so achingly sad and just too wrong.

After the ceremony, I had sat in my room at my easel attempting to release my revulsion of life’s cruelty. Only the amount of water I kept adding to the paint wasn’t enough. The pigment didn’t bleed with the same ruthlessness as it did within me. When the thunder sounded from outside my window, I’d grabbed my easel, brush, and paints, and fled to the backyard to drown in the freak thunderstorm.