Portrait of Us

by A. Destiny

  My house was much different. Mom had art everywhere, pieces she’d collected during big vacations with Dad. Our furniture wasn’t plush, but more sleek and modern. Muted colors and contemporary style. Sparse furnishing to make the big rooms look even bigger. Not like this place.

  We usually only ate dinner together once or twice a week, which was why I was just gonna grab something out of the freezer and heat it up after my meeting with Matthew. This was definitely better than frozen pizza.

  Suddenly I realized everyone was looking at me. I paused midbite. Had they asked me a question I’d missed because of looking around and getting lost in my own thoughts? “Um,” I stalled.

  “Mom wanted to know how you’re liking the art class so far,” Matthew said with a knowing smile.

  “Oh, it’s great.” I talked a bit about the pieces we’d worked on so far. “There are a lot of talented people in there. It’s challenging and fun.”

  Matthew’s mom beamed at him. “Matt worked so hard to get in. He was the only full scholarship recipient for the program. He’s an amazing artist—as I’m sure you’ve seen already.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, especially as he squirmed in his seat. “That’s awesome.” I also couldn’t help the small twinge of jealousy in my chest, watching the love pouring from his mom’s eyes. Yes, my parents supported me. But they’d never gushed about my art like this. For them, this was a side project, something that distracted me before school started.

  When the summer was over, it was expected that I’d pick my regular routine back up and art would be on the back burner. My life would revolve around nonstop academics again. Once, I would have been excited for the challenge. Now I was kinda dreading it.

  “How long have you been doing art?” I asked, curious to learn more about Matthew.

  He swiped at an errant lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, and my fingers itched to touch it. “Um, forever?” He gave a self-conscious laugh.

  “Mom said Matthew used to paint with everything, all over the walls,” Carmen said, shoveling food into her mouth. “Pizza sauce. Crayons. Pancake batter. She grounded him when he was little for using her nail polish all over the mirror.”

  “In my defense, it was a self-portrait,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And the brush was small enough for detail work.”

  His mom snorted. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Matthew.”

  Boy, was she right about that. When he smiled, that dimple popped out and drew my eyes like a magnet.

  It was fun and interesting to see him around his family. He didn’t seem so self-assured, the way he came across in school or even in our art class. He was strangely . . . vulnerable, like he was afraid of me judging him. If only he knew that that sweetness made me soften up even more.

  I dragged my attention to my plate and made myself focus on eating instead of staring at him so much. Good thing the lasagna was so tasty. It helped provide a solid distraction from my thoughts.

  Matthew and his family talked as dinner went on. I quietly watched their dynamic. He was fun but firm with his sisters, nudging them to lower their voices when they got too excited or loud. They respected him without questioning it, which made me think he’d probably been helping his mom take care of them for a while.

  His mom was right—there was plenty of food to be had. I found myself finishing my plate and getting seconds, something I normally didn’t do at other people’s houses. But she was a great cook.

  When we finished, my belly full, she grabbed the plates. I stood to help.

  “Oh, no, you’re a guest here.” She eyed the twins, who grudgingly got out of their seats to help her clear.

  Leaving me alone with Matthew.

  “So, that’s my family,” he said with a chuckle, eyes flashing with the low laugh. “They’re loud and crazy.”

  “I really like them.” I poured earnestness into my tone. “They seem like they care about you a lot.” I knew my family cared, but we didn’t do the little things like his did. His mom reaching over to pat his back as she bragged about his art. The way his sisters bragged about his talents. Yup, that little flare of envy got a smidge bigger. Our family wasn’t much on displays of emotion, public or private. But I hadn’t realized I really wanted it until now.

  “It’s been just the four of us for a while. We’re all pretty close.” Matthew stood and peeked into the kitchen. “Need any help?”

  “I’m good,” his mom hollered. “Go, have fun.” She stepped out and wiped her hands quickly on a dish towel, then reached over and hugged me. “It was nice meeting you. I hope you’ll come back over again soon. You’re welcome anytime!”

  She genuinely meant it—I could tell by the warm smile creasing her face. “Thanks again for dinner. It was great.”

  She shooed us out the door. “And next time you come, I’ll show you all of Matthew’s baby pictures.”

  He groaned and tried to push me out faster.

  I laughed and threw out over my shoulder, “It’s a date!”

  The sun was descending toward the horizon as we made our way back to the park. It was empty now, quiet, with only small gusts of warm breezes flowing. Funny how one impulsive decision had changed things. I was seeing Matthew in a slightly different light, getting more and more information about his character. Every time I was around him, the mental portrait I had of him got another wash of color.

  We headed to the middle of the park, where there was a set of swings. Matthew plopped down in one, and I took the seat beside him. I kicked off my sandals and ran my toes through the still-warm sand beneath my feet.

  “So, now you’ve learned all this embarrassing stuff about me,” he said. “Your turn to be in the hot spot. Tell me about you. And it had better be good.”

  I stuck out my tongue. “I’m boring. I never painted on walls.” I kicked my feet and began to swing. Air rushed around me. I leaned back in my seat, gripping the metal chains, and straightened my whole body out. The sky moved back and forth above me, the last remains of sunlight dappling through the trees. When was the last time I’d just relaxed like this? “I work too hard,” I blurted out, surprised to realize I meant it.

  My constant need to be the best at everything meant I worked, worked, worked all the time. Free time was more time to study, to keep aiming for number one. Which meant I missed out on these quieter moments. Funny how I didn’t realize how much I craved it until right now. With him.

  “Why do you push yourself so hard?” he asked. “What is it you’re aiming for?”

  I pointed my toes and kept my attention on the sky. I wasn’t sure I was ready to really spill my deepest feelings. There was something scary about being so vulnerable with a person . . . especially one I was growing increasingly attracted to. “Oh, well, I just love to win,” I said with a laugh. “And speaking of, we need to talk about our project.”

  My diversion worked. “Are you struggling half as much as I am?” he asked. “I just can’t seem to get in the groove of it. I’m not feeling it the way I should be.”

  I slowed my swing and sat up to look at him. “Me too. I’ve never had a piece frustrate me as much as this one does. I keep working on it but it isn’t getting any better. Do you still think it’s the right one for us?”

  The light danced along the top of his head, making him glow. I couldn’t stop staring. My heart rate picked up again, and I swallowed. It was getting harder to fight these feelings, despite all my efforts. We’re really different, I kept telling myself. We’d never work out. And then I’d end up hurt and brokenhearted. I just couldn’t risk it.

  Matthew shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. But we may need to go back to the drawing board.”

  I groaned. It had taken us so long to get here.

  “Or maybe we just need some fresh inspiration to help us inject new life into the project.” He stopped swinging, stood, and grabbed my hand. “Come on. Let’s find it. You have your phone, right?”

  His hand was firm, wrapped around min
e, as he tugged me out of the swing. I barely had time to grab my shoes, laughing. “Hold on, hold on,” I said as I slipped into them, then dug my phone out with my free hand. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  We ran to the sidewalk that edged the park and began to stroll, still holding hands. I was so nervous that I was afraid he’d feel my fingers shaking, my palms sweating. But he held my hand like it was something we did every day. Like we were friends. Did it mean anything to him?

  Matthew tugged his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. He stopped me and turned me to face him. My arms tingled from the light pressure of his hands on my skin. I struggled to keep my breathing even and pretend like everything was cool.

  “Okay,” he said. “I have an idea. Go take pictures of five things that surprise you. Whoever finds the best shot will get to tell the other how we should fix our art project. And maybe we can even use some element of what we took a picture of. Sound fair?”

  A strange challenge, but my pulse picked up in excitement. Just the challenge I needed. I was going to win this for sure. “How will we know which one is the best?” I said with a crooked grin.

  “I think we’ll know. I trust us to be unbiased.” He leaned close to me, and his mouth was just a few inches away. His eyes glanced down at my lips, then darted back to my eyes. “Do you?”

  I swallowed, nodded. My heart fluttered like a trapped bird. All I could smell was his skin, the gentle scent of his cologne. He wrapped around me like a summer morning, and I wanted to lean in, breathe deeply.

  He leaned back, breaking the spell. I blinked and made myself shake off the moment. Obviously it was just in my head.

  “Fine. Meet back here in fifteen minutes,” I said, then turned and walked off without looking back.

  Good grief. I bit the inside of my cheek for a welcome, painful flash of reality. Stop being so dumb, I chastised myself. You’re partners. That’s it. You can’t keep going around, thinking about how good he smells or how big and warm his hands are. Knock it off.

  The voice in my head jarred me enough to help me turn my attention back to our challenge.

  I scoured the ground, the air, the trees. I made myself look at everything with a new, fresh eye. What surprised me? The sun was descending fast, taking with it the last of the day’s light. I was running out of time to get good shots.

  I saw a piece of paper skittering across the sidewalk. On it were a bunch of crossed-out hearts, hand drawn in pencil. Well, that was interesting. I took a shot.

  One down, four to go.

  From there, once I opened myself up to take everything in, I found the rest of my pictures. There was a patch of grass shaped like a question mark. An old tennis shoe with the back heel cut off. A spot on a tree that had been carved with the words “I exist.”

  Just one more picture to find.

  I turned around and saw the long length of my shadow—the tip of it, my head, was resting on the tree trunk. It was cool and weird, so I took the picture and dashed back to meet Matthew. What images had he found, and would he find mine interesting, the way I had? My lungs tightened in anticipation.

  Right on the dot, Matthew strolled back toward me. The sky was aflame with pinks and purples as dusk pulled across the horizon. Streetlights around the park and sidewalks flickered on and hummed to life. It was quiet and intimate with no one else around, like the park belonged to just us.

  Crud. Mom would expect me home soon. But I didn’t want to go, not yet. I could hang out a few more minutes, at least.

  “What did you find?” he asked me as he neared. We walked over to a bench and sat down. His thigh bounced lightly beside mine, our jeans rubbing just a touch.

  I gave him my phone and tried to stay cool as he flicked through my images, one at a time. Slowly. He took a moment to really digest each one.

  “Wow.” His face was dead serious, and he had a look of appreciation in his eyes. “I really like those. You have an interesting eye for composition.” He flicked back to the image of the paper. “This one is funny and sad at the same time. Why would someone make all that effort to draw hearts and then cross them out? I wonder about that person’s story. This picture makes me wonder about it.”

  I flushed from the unexpected compliment. Somehow, hearing him praise my art made me feel like a real artist. “Thanks, Matthew. This was an interesting idea. Now let me see yours.”

  He clicked to the camera roll and handed me his phone. I couldn’t quite read his eyes, but the way he pursed his lips and bounced his leg more, it seemed like he was a little uneasy.

  When I saw the first image, a laugh barked out of me. He’d taken his shoes off and had dug his heels into a small sandy patch. “Very cute,” I said drolly.

  “Hey, it surprised me how cool the sand was,” he said with a laugh.

  I kept going to the next image. A far-off shot all the way across the park of an old man and woman holding hands as they walked a tiny fluffy white dog—they had to be well in their eighties, bodies hunched over, love pouring from their wrinkled smiles. I swallowed, a lump growing in my chest. The image was potent with emotion and stole my breath.

  The next image was a broken plastic bracelet, discarded by the sidewalk. The fourth was a pair of raggedy pants with rips on the knees, laid evenly out on the grass.

  “Someone’s probably gonna get cold tonight,” I said with a chuckle.

  I looked at the last image, and the air sucked from my lungs. It was a close-up shot of my face, me biting my lower lip as I studied my shadow on the tree. The sun glinted off my cheeks, illuminating my skin to a dusky, warm brown. My lashes fluttered along the tops of my cheeks. In that moment I looked . . . intense.

  Beautiful.

  No one had ever taken a picture like that of me before.

  I glanced up at him, the phone gripped tightly in my hand. “Why did you— What—” I had no words. I was flustered.

  His gaze skittered away. “You surprise me,” he said simply.

  I surprised him. Me. The girl who loved math and competition. The one who had snubbed him and his style of art until he’d started forcing me to open my eyes to the world around me.

  Matthew was feeling this . . . thing . . . between us too. A prospect that simultaneously thrilled and scared me to the core.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I think I’m the winner,” he said in a quiet tone. It wasn’t gloating, though.

  I still wasn’t sure how to respond. I handed him back his phone. “Hm. Maybe you are.” Even without the picture of me, he’d gotten some interesting images. “So what does this mean?”

  “I have some ideas.” He looked up at the sky and grimaced. “I have to be heading home soon though, before the twins make my mom go crazy. If you have time, can we talk about it more after class tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” I straightened my back and tried to shake off the weird, unsettling euphoria that had settled in my chest. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stand right here, suspended in time, in the warm glow of a summer dusk with this guy. He surprised me, made me laugh.

  Stole my breath away.

  “Let me walk you home,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Really.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “My mom would kill me if I didn’t escort you.”

  That euphoric feeling sank just a bit. So he was doing it out of a sense of duty. I swallowed back my disappointment. “Fine.”

  It was a little over a mile to my house. The first chunk was walked in quiet. The street was pretty quiet, with only the occasional car zipping by.

  “Why do you like to win so much?” Matthew asked, breaking the awkward silence between us.

  “Don’t you like to win?” I fired back. After all, he was in this competition with me. Plus, he played basketball, and sports thrived on the art of winning.

  His steps were quiet beside me. Cicadas and crickets chirped in the grasses and trees around us. “Sure I do. But I kinda get the feeling you like it more than the average person.”

&nbs
p; Maybe so. Winning was how I felt special. It gave me tangible goals, evidence that I could succeed at whatever I wanted to.

  It made people respect me. It made my parents notice me.

  The realization squeezed my throat, and I dragged in a quiet breath, trying not to give away the rush of emotion. “I . . . need to be good at the things I do,” I admitted. “I just happen to do a lot of things.”

  “You seem to be a bit of an overachiever.” The words were soft, but they might as well have been a slap across my face.

  So that was how he viewed me? In such a negative light? The word “overachiever” wasn’t a compliment. It meant someone who was a workaholic, like my parents. I sped up my pace, my feet clipping along the sidewalk.

  “Hey,” he said, darting back up to my side. “What’s the deal?”

  I froze in place, and he stopped a split second after me. I planted my hands on my hips. “Why is wanting to win a bad thing? I set goals, and I go after what I want. But you know what? I don’t need to rationalize any of that to you.” Who was he to judge me, anyway?

  A tiny thought niggled at the back of my mind. You judged him first, it declared, despite my efforts to ignore it. But this was different. This was below the belt, hitting me in a particularly sensitive spot.

  “I’m fine to walk home alone,” I continued, proud of the way my voice didn’t wobble with all of my emotions. “I’ll see you tomorrow in class.” With that, I spun and walked away from him. My face burned with frustration, irritation, mixed with a healthy dose of mortification.

  When I reached our front door, I tossed it open and ran right up for my bedroom, offering a mumbled hello to my parents, who were sitting on the couch. I closed my door behind me and plopped down on my bed.

  It took me a good ten minutes to finally shake off my immediate feelings of frustration. And once I did, guilt edged in. It wasn’t Matthew’s fault I was oversensitive about the topic, torn between wanting to please my parents and wanting to be my own person. He was still getting to know me. No way could he have realized it was one of my personal triggers.