by Leddy Harper
“You paint on the paper, and you paint with your hands.”
“And what do you suggest I finger paint for you, Bentley?”
He walked closer to me and then held my arms between us. “That’s just it, I don’t want you to paint anything in particular. I don’t care if it’s the Mona Lisa or a giant blob. As long as you feel what it is you’re doing. Show me here, with this, what you feel inside. If it’s pain, show me. If it’s anger, get it out. If it’s nothing, and the paper is just as white as it is now when you’re done…I don’t care.”
I nodded and moved away, finding the tubes of primary colors. I started with blue, squirting a small amount onto my finger. I stared at the paper, unsure of what to do. Nothing came to mind. I didn’t want to paint anything.
“Tell me a happy story about your mom,” he said from behind me.
I closed my eyes and let the images of her come to me. I hadn’t done that in so long. Since she passed away, all I could think about was the way I’d found her on Christmas day. My pain hadn’t allowed me to think of anything else.
A small smile rose on my face as I thought about one day in particular. “We didn’t have much money when I was younger, just enough to cover what we needed. A week before my eighth birthday, my mom’s car broke down, and it was expensive to fix, so she couldn’t get me anything that year. Instead, she used the last of her paint supply and painted me a mural on my wall. I wanted the Little Mermaid, but she didn’t have enough paint for it.” I pressed my fingers to the paper, smearing around the small amount of blue. When I ran out, I took the tube and squeezed more directly onto the paper, pressing my hand into it until it became covered.
“Keep going,” he encouraged me with a soft voice, sounding closer than before.
“She painted the rock with water splashing around it, and promised when she had more money, she’d add Ariel to it. A few months later, for my sister’s birthday, she’d received a bonus from her boss. She was torn between getting Clari something she’d been asking for, or getting paints to finish my mural. I told her to use the money for Clari’s gift. My rock would always be there.”
I added red to the paper, swirling it around the blue.
“The day after my sister’s birthday, Mom came and picked me up from school early. She didn’t get Clari, only taking me out. I thought maybe I had a doctor’s appointment or something, but she ended up taking me to the mall. We walked around for hours, trying on fancy clothes and shoes we couldn’t afford. But she said it was fun pretending. Before we left, I wanted to go to the toy store. She let me look around and I’d found this water toy. I didn’t even know what it was since we didn’t have a pool to even use it in, but it had the head of an alligator on a stick, and at the end, there was a handle that when squeezed, it moved the mouth on top. I guess it was supposed to spray water, but I didn’t know. I just thought it was cool. We were about to walk out when she stopped and went back in, spending five dollars she probably shouldn’t have on that stupid plastic toy. But she did it for me.”
I sat back, admiring the strokes of blue and red that ran next to each other but never overlapped.
“She sounds like a good mom,” he said from just over my shoulder. I didn’t have to turn around to know he’d knelt down behind me, because I could feel his presence at my back.
“She was the best mom.”
“What’s your worst memory of her?”
I turned my head to the side, catching his shadow in my peripheral vision. “Why would you ask me that? You know what the worst memory is.”
“No. Not that day. Before. Something she did to maybe make you mad. Make you upset or sad.”
“What’s the point in that, Bentley?” I asked, anger and resentment toward him building up inside until my flesh became heated.
“I want you to express your feelings. All of them.”
I glanced back at the paper, at my soft swirls, my happy colors. Then I added yellow, not in a blob like the others, but in frantic circles of wet paint, mixing all three together as a memory hit me.
“In high school, I really liked this guy from one of my classes. His name was Manny. He played football and baseball…everyone liked him. He wasn’t a jock or an asshole. He was really nice, and talked to me like a person. I had grown breasts and curves earlier than a lot of the girls my age, so most of the guys in school saw that and thought of one thing. But not Manny. I really liked him.”
More paint had been added to the paper, but I had no idea where it’d come from. And instead of one hand shifting the colors around, I now had both flat on the paper, frantically pushing them through wet paint, pressing so hard I felt the rough wood beneath.
“He finally asked me out. And not just on any date, but to his prom. I was only a freshman, and he was a junior. I ran off the bus and immediately called my best friend, eager to tell her all about it. When my mom got home from work, she had to have me repeat myself because I was so excited she couldn’t understand me. I remember her face, her crazy-big smile at my enthusiasm. But once I got it all out, her smile faded. She told me I couldn’t go because he was older than me. She said boys that age are only after one thing, and there was only one reason why he’d asked me to prom instead of a normal date. We fought about it. She didn’t know Manny like I did. And if I really wanted to have sex, I could’ve done it after school before she came home from work. I didn’t need to wait until a dance.
“That pissed her off, and she started accusing me of having people over while she was gone. She asked Clari if she’d seen anyone here. And then she proceeded to ask the neighbors if they’d seen any cars here while she was gone. She didn’t trust me. I was a virgin, I’d never been on a real date before, and just because an older guy had asked me to a freaking dance, she thought I was a slut.”
“She said that?” His question made me stop what I was doing, freeze in place, and take notice of the abstract smears in front of me.
“No,” I answered, sitting back on my heels, closer to him. “She said she trusted me, but didn’t trust teenage boys. She said they’d tell a girl anything to get what they wanted. But it didn’t make me feel any better. She didn’t trust my judgment, believing I would let a guy smooth-talk me into bed. And to make matters worse, Manny ended up taking some other girl from class. They went on to date for three years.”
“Did he have sex with her?”
I shrugged, feeling completely defeated. “I have no idea. If he did, at least he didn’t toss her to the side like my mom claimed he would do to me. It was my first real crush, and I’d lost him because of her.”
Bentley moved to my side, sitting on the paper next to me, not caring about the paint he sat in. “Looking back on that now, do you still feel that way? After everything that’s happened, after all the other good times you’ve shared with her, how does that memory make you feel now?”
The first tear broke through, slipping down my face. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that in a long time.”
“Then think about it.”
I did. I stared at the mess in front of me, the colors mixing and blending into a mucky brown color, feeling like it was a replica of how I looked on the inside. Muddled, messy, dark. I blinked away another tear and then pulled my gaze up to his, finding him staring intently at me.
“I realize now that she was only trying to protect me. She didn’t want me to grow up too fast. I see now that she did trust me, but I was only fifteen, and most fifteen-year-olds don’t make the best decisions. She didn’t know Manny, only knew how guys were at his age. And she was right about that—the other boys in school only cared about one thing.” I used the back of my hand to wipe away a falling tear from my chin. “I wish I hadn’t spent so much time mad at her over that. I wasted weeks not talking to her. She tried to make things better, tried to talk to me, but I only ignored her. There were nights I heard her cry to my stepdad, yet I still held onto my anger.”
“So now, look at your painting, and tell me what you s
ee. You painted with happy thoughts, and then with a bad one…tell me what you see.”
I realized it then what he’d wanted me to do. He’d asked me to paint while telling him about a good memory, a bright moment in my life with my mom, and that picture was easy. I’d done that with soft, smooth, careful strokes. I’d taken my time to line the colors up without mixing them, keeping them vivid on the paper. And then he had me relive a moment in time when I’d been so angered and hurt by my mom, I’d punished her with my silence. And because of that, my bright, happy picture became ruined, tarnished by careless strokes, furious and hasty swishes. The bright colors became dulled, dark, and nasty.
“A mess,” I whispered.
He didn’t need to say anything, I already knew. The paper in front of me had become a physical depiction of my life. I’d taken a bad moment, a hard memory, the worst experience possible, and allowed it to taint my existence. To dull me, to cover all the good I’d ever had before that.
“Want to know what I think of you? What I see when I look at you?”
I barely nodded, having no strength left in me to do much else.
He leaned forward, taking the tube of yellow paint and adding some to his finger. He swiped my cheek, leaving behind a cold trail on my skin. “I see a girl that wants to live.” He swiped my other cheek. “A girl who wants to be happy.” He added more to his finger, brushing it down the bridge of my nose. “A girl so jaded she refuses to see the good in life.”
I started to shake my head, ready to argue with him, but he stopped me, pressing his painted finger to my lips. He added more paint, starting a new trail from my chin down to the base of my throat.
“I see someone who wants to love, but is too scared to let anyone in.” His finger continued until he reached the top of my shirt, right above my cleavage. “Someone too scared to lose someone else.” With more paint, he drew a line down my thigh, starting at the hem of my jean skirt and ending at my knee. Then he moved to my other leg. “I see a happy person, concealed in tragedy. Hidden by fear and sadness.”
“Bentley,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.
But he shushed me, bringing his face closer to mine. “I’m not done, Sarah.”
The light barely lit his features as his face hid in the shadow of my head, but I didn’t need to see his expression to know how he felt. His voice said it all. As intense as this moment was for me, he was right there with me, feeling everything I did.
The next time he touched me, it wasn’t with just one finger, it was with his entire hand as he rubbed in the streaks he’d painted on my body. “I see beauty. I see courage. I see a woman.”
He grabbed the blue paint next, squirting some onto his finger before making new trails, this time on my arms, my forehead, and the sides of my neck. “I see deep pain, fresh scars, and loneliness.” He used his palm once more to smear the blue into my skin. “I see an incredibly sad girl.”
I grew nearly breathless as he pressed his body into mine, causing me to lean back until I was flat against the painted paper beneath me. He hovered above me, his gaze lingering on mine. Every breath that left his lips hit mine, sending wave upon wave of heated agony through me. I wanted more, but of what, I didn’t know. More of his words, more of his touch. Just more.
Finally, he slowly slid down my body and grabbed the tube of red paint. But instead of putting it on his finger this time, he carefully lifted the bottom of my shirt, leaving my stomach exposed. An unfurled groan ran through the air as he tightly closed his eyes.
Before he opened them again, I’d pulled my shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it to the side, leaving my chest only covered in my bra. His eyes snapped to mine, silently pleading with me to stop this, knowing he didn’t have the strength to end it.
Instead of making a decision, I lay still, waiting for his next move. He shook his head before squirting red paint directly on my stomach in a line from the middle of my chest to my belly button. He tossed the tube aside, studying the glistening color, not once glancing up at me. His fingers began to play in the paint, not like before, but as if testing it out first.
“The truth is, Sarah…I don’t want to see you. I never meant to see any part of you. This wasn’t supposed to happen—you weren’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be at that bar. You weren’t supposed to be so sad.” He pressed his hand against my skin, coating his palm in red, and then slowly, gently covered my stomach. “Why did you have to be so sad?” he asked, his voice breaking as if it physically pained him.
I ran my fingers through his hair, forcing him to glance up at my face. “You don’t make me sad. I’m glad I was there…at that bar. I’m glad you saw me. I don’t know where I’d be right now had you not shown up that night.”
He pulled his body up, hovering over me until his mouth lingered only an inch above mine. “Don’t say that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But I do. I’m glad you’re in my life. I don’t want to think about my life without you in it.” And with that, my lips became consumed by his. An animalistic growl ripped through him, causing my hips to buck into his.
“This isn’t right,” he said, barely pulling away.
“The best things in life never are.”
He grabbed my hip with one hand, using the other to hold himself up above me, and then thrust his pelvis into mine. My moan mixed with his in the night air almost like harmony. I grabbed his face, ran my fingers through his hair, and pulled him closer to me.
After two more thrusts, he finally stopped. Gazing into my eyes, he pleaded, “Please tell me to stop. Please.”
I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted him to take me all the way. I’ve wanted it since we first met, and the yearning had only grown stronger since. But there was something in his eyes, something desperate in the way his voice shook, that made me pause. This can’t always be about me. It can’t always be about what I want. For whatever reason, Bentley couldn’t take this further, and I had to respect that. Much like he’d done nothing but respect me since that first night at the bar, I had to show him the same.
I pressed my hands to his shoulders, pushing back slightly. “We need to stop, Bentley.” My words weren’t convincing, because it wasn’t what I wanted, but it was enough to cause him to sit back.
He tossed my shirt at me, averting his eyes as if looking at me was too painful. I sat up and glanced around, noticing the mess we’d made. I had paint all over me, all over my clothes, and Bentley had it on him as well. His hands, parts of his face, and the front of his shirt were caked with colors.
“Maybe we should go for a swim to wash this off,” I said with a grin, thinking about the possibility of skinny-dipping with him.
“That’s not a good idea. Gators live in there.” He stood up and extended his hand to mine. “Come on, let’s go inside to wash up.”
His tense voice and stern words left me with no other option but to take his offered hand and allow him to escort me inside. He pulled out a clean pair of boxers and another T-shirt from the drawer in the dresser, and then took me to his bathroom where I stood in silence while he washed his hands in the sink.
“Clean up. I’m going back outside to pick up our mess, and then I’ll take my shower. Meet me back in my room.” Then he kissed me. It was soft and gentle, yet passionate. Long and breathtaking without morphing into hunger or desperation. It was the kind of kiss I’d always longed for, and it left my chest heavy—heavy with promise, love, and respect.
He pulled away, holding my gaze for a moment before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. It took me a moment to catch my breath, but once I did, giddiness consumed me. It infiltrated every last sense I had, calming me with peace, covering me with excitement, and filling me with things I never thought I’d have again.
After my shower, I stood in front of the mirror, trying to see a difference in my reflection. Just a week ago, I couldn’t recognize the person staring back at me, but now, I could see a few similarit
ies. My eyes were still rimmed in dark circles, and my cheeks still appeared hollow. But other than that, I seemed happier. My smile felt genuine, my brown eyes glowed, and my all-around aura was lighter.
I took in a cleansing breath of air and turned to open the door, ready to meet Bentley back in his room. But the moment I swung the door fully open, the bathroom light cascading into the dark hallway, I was met with a man exiting the room across from me. He finished closing the door and then stilled momentarily before slowly turning around to face me. I knew who it was after once glance. And seeing him in front of me left me feeling duped, like I’d been played this entire time.
His amber eyes glowed from the light behind me before they narrowed, studying me as if questioning my presence in his house. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to; the way he watched me spoke louder than any words he could’ve used. It was clear that he didn’t want me here. But that didn’t matter, because I didn’t care to be here, either.
He craned his neck to the side, catching sight of what I could only assume to be Bentley without looking for myself. But I didn’t need to see him for confirmation. Especially after Luke’s gaze met mine once more. His shoulders fell, his head hung, and a disheartened sigh left his lips before he turned around and headed back down the hall.
I watched him walk away, watched as he made his way to Bentley on the other side of the house, the side I’d never been to before. He pressed his hand against Bentley’s chest and pushed him backward into the master bedroom at the end of the hall. Bentley’s eyes never left mine—his sad, apologetic gaze pierced mine until it was hidden behind a closed door.
My genuine smile had long since fallen from my lips.
I’m sure the glow in my eyes had dimmed.
And the aura that surrounded me became nothing more than a cloud of utter disappointment.
Fighting back the pain, the dejection, I went to Bentley’s room and sat on the edge of the bed with my knees pressed into my chest. I wrapped my arms around my legs and buried my face, trying to understand it all. But nothing made sense.