I dip my head to hide my fiery cheeks and hope we’re heading for more steady ground.
Chapter Sixteen
Darby
I stand in front of the stack of art supplies tucked into the corner. They’re as lonely as I am. A foldable easel sits on the bottom. On top of that are a dozen canvases—some works in progress, some blank, and all different sizes. My wooden briefcase of paints, brushes, and palettes leans against to the pile.
For years, painting has been natural to me. I need it to breathe, to survive. But that part of me died with Daniel and left a wide, rotten hole behind. In two short meetings, Shaw cleaned it out. Then Adam started healing it.
Maybe that’s why the burning desire to break out my paints came back.
Carefully—I can’t lift too much weight—I pick up the case and set it on the bed. Then I peel back the layer of canvases one by one, picking a blank one. After setting up the easel close to the window, I lay the canvas on it and open my case. Familiar scents of oil paints and turpentine greet me like a long lost friend. I draw my fingers over the row of paint tubes, a smile playing at my mouth.
My heart pumps faster, ready for an adventure of color and brushstrokes. With a shaky breath, I grab a handful of paints, dab them on my palette, and choose a brush.
Facing the canvas, I close my eyes to remember the tones of Adam’s unique eyes. Pale brown with flecks of gold form an inner ring. A sea of green-blue makes the outer. The circles bleed into each other, uneven and messy. Ordinarily, I’d sketch out a drawing first and plan where I want each color to go, but I’m afraid I’ll lose the freedom of dabbing my brush in a pigment and sliding it across the canvas if I wait.
I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve.
I confront my fear and dip the bristles in gold.
* * *
I ditch my Physical Therapist the second she turns her back to work with another client. The way I see it, painting counts as arm exercises.
I knead my shoulder as I walk across the hall to the other gym. Too bad PT doesn’t include massages or soaks in a hot tub. At least, it hasn’t for me and I don’t see any massage tables or tubs around.
Like before, I find Adam pumping his legs at a stationary bike. He’s staring at the monitor, though his eyes have that far away look of someone who’s left their body to free-float somewhere else. His mask hangs on a knob and his pillow is propped in a pocket hanging off the monitor.
I approach slowly, uncertain of if I want to bring him back to reality or let him stay in whatever world he’s flown off to.
The timer on his bike buzzes. He blinks and shakes his head. It reminds me of someone coming up from a dive underwater. He wipes his face with a towel.
I saunter over to him. “I wish I liked PT as much as you.”
He fumbles with the towel, then dips his chin with embarrassment. It’s adorable. “Oh, hello.”
“You finished?”
He glances around. “Not really, but my therapist isn’t here.” His brow furrows. “Wonder where he went. He’s usually on top of me like Marmite on toast.”
“Mar-what?”
“Um,” He twists his mouth like he’s trying to figure out how to explain what he just said. Finally, he gives up with shrug. “Nevermind.”
I catch him by the wrist and yank him toward me. “Let’s go.”
His eyes widen as he flails to keep up with me. “Where?”
I shake my head. “Anywhere but here.”
We halt at the door. I check to see if the coast is clear. The hallway is empty. I lead us to the elevator. Adam doesn’t make any moves to free his wrist from my grip. A tingle of excitement works through my belly and threatens to burst out in a giggle.
While we wait, Adam holds his palm to his chest like he’s lost something. Then he covers his mouth with his free hand.
“What?”
“I’m supposed to wear a mask and carry my pillow.” He chews on his lip ring.
“Why?”
“It’s so I don’t get an infection or pull out my stitches and wires.”
The elevator dings and the door slides open.
“I don’t have cooties, you know.” I drag him onto the elevator. “And you have to carry a pillow to walk? You’re a bit delicate, aren’t you?”
He winces. “I … um … you think I’m delicate?”
I let go of his hand and press “G” for ground floor. “I didn’t mean it as in weak or bad or anything.”
“Yes you did,” he says quietly. He stares at his feet, hiding his multicolored eyes behind his long lashes.
God, it doesn’t take me long to ruin things. Especially if it’s good. “Sorry. I’m a jerk.”
“No. It’s okay. You’re right. I’m weak.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I should go back to the gym. Or my room.”
“Don’t be silly. And you’re not weak.”
“I probably wouldn’t be any fun to spend time with anyway.” He taps his right heel to his left toe. It reminds me of a little boy who’s apologizing for stealing a cookie out of the cookie jar. He hasn’t even done anything wrong. And not wearing a mask for a few minutes isn’t that big a deal, is it?
“Come on. Forget what I said, okay? And forget the rules. Have fun.” I want to say, “Please don’t ditch me. Not now. I need this.” I curl my hands into fists. He’s not weak. I am.
The elevator slips from the fourth floor to the third. I count the seconds between levels. Soon, we’ll be at the first floor and I’ll step off and Adam will probably return to his eighth floor tower.
The number “2” lights up.
Then “G.”
Like everything else, I’ll have to let him go. Move on. Stay alone.
I step out as soon as the doors open without saying a word or looking back. I keep walking, straight through the sadness filling my lungs and stinging my eyes. It slows me down, but I don’t stop. I’ll be able to breathe once I get outside in the cold, numbing air.
Easy-strided footsteps keep pace.
I face whoever it is, ready to lob a fireball of snark at them.
Adam halts. We’re shoulder to shoulder. Well, more like my shoulder to his elbow.
The corridor is crowded, full of employees, visitors, and patients. We’re boulders in the stream of bodies. They break against us, twisting sideways and side-stepping like swirling currents.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He laces his fingers with mine. “Living life.”
The emptiness inside shrinks a bit. “I don’t understand.”
“I said I’m supposed to wear a mask and carry my pillow. I didn’t say I wanted to. I’d rather be with you.”
His proper accent tickles me. I try to steady my breathing and fail. “It could be dangerous.”
“That’s exactly why I’m doing it.”
My heart jitters, high on his touch, his warmth, and his bright gaze. I hurt him, but he didn’t lecture me on how I should think before I speak. He didn’t yell. He didn’t break.
He stayed.
I squeeze his hand. “Sometimes I say dumb things.”
“Me too.”
“Sometimes I ruin things.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“That makes you pretty dense.”
“Would this be an example of saying something dumb?” His tongue finds his lip ring again.
“Funny.” I give him a half-smile.
He takes the lead, holding fast to my hand. We make our way outside. Though it’s chilly, the sun’s brightness makes me happy.
Oh hell, who am I kidding? Adam is holding my hand. He’s breaking whatever rules he’s supposed to be following to be with me. It could be a blizzard and I’d still be ecstatic.
“Where should we go?” he asks.
“There’s a park around the block.”
“Ace.”
My heart does another somersault. One word and the kid’s go
t me crushing on him harder than ever.
More people visit the park today. The lack of rain must have something to do with it. A couple sits on the bench Shaw and I had huddled on. Fine with me. I’d rather find someplace new to share with Adam.
Past the pond behind a group of trees, we find it. A swing set.
“When was the last time you swung?” I ask, sitting on the plastic seat. I hold onto the chains.
Adam settles into the swing next to me, but sits still. “I don’t know, maybe when I was five.”
I kick off my feet and pump my legs. “I always loved this feeling. Sort of like flying.”
“Careful.”
I slow down a bit. “Do you see everything as a risk?”
He scuttles in the track like a crab crawling on the ocean floor. “I’ve been sick a long time, Darby. It’s not so easy for me to jump into things as it is for you.”
I let the swing come to a stop. “You sound so much older than most kids our age.”
“Sometimes I feel it.”
“Well, I can make you feel young again.” I swing, ignoring the tension building in my shoulders.
He works his lip ring with his tongue.
I imagine what it’d be like to kiss him. On the mouth, not his cheek. I could hop off this swing, throw my arms around him, and suck on that piercing until he melted. On the other hand, I’d probably shock him so much his freshly operated on heart might trip all over itself.
Down Darbs, down. One step at a time. Start with something light and work your way up. “This is a judgment free zone, right?”
He angles his face toward me. The sunlight catches him just right. “Absolutely.”
“Then we can say anything we want to each other, no pressure.”
“I’d like that.”
“Okay, then. Try this one on for size. You have the most unique eye color I’ve ever seen.”
His eyes widen, but his mouth curves up at the corners. “Yeah?”
I stand and move in front of him. “Definitely.”
He tips his head back, not that I’m much taller even with him sitting. “Most people think they’re light brown. Boring.”
I hook my index finger under his chin and lean closer, making sure not to block the light. “They’re so much more than that. I see brown, gold, green, and blue. They’re beautiful.”
He blinks, but doesn’t shy away. “You see a lot.”
“I … paint. I’m an artist.”
A spark of curiosity flickers in his gaze. “What do you paint?”
I trace my fingers along his jaw and cup his cheek with my palm. “I like contrast and the way things blend when there’s conflict. I smoosh opposites together and let the paint sort out the details.”
He covers my hand with his. “Juxtapose.”
“Huh?”
“Putting things close together.”
“My, my, your vocabulary is showing.”
He blushes. It’s so sweet that my stomach grows warm and tingly.
I have to take a step back to stop myself from locking lips with him right here and now. But I don’t want to ruin this moment with rushing things.
Huh. Me, hesitating.
That’s new.
* * *
Instead of going directly to my room after Adam and I return from our walk, I wander the hospital, searching for a quiet corner. I finally find a chair next to the outpatient pharmacy. It’s closed now, so no one is waiting for a prescription.
I’d rather hang out with Adam, but he’s expecting his parents around dinnertime, so we decided to part ways. It’s okay. For now. In the meantime, I can plan my next series of paintings.
I immerse myself in the contrast of Adam’s eyes. The way the sunlight highlighted them. How a cloud shadowed them. I hope I can capture his raw emotion. Sincere, sensitive, and shy, but also quiet and steady. More contrast.
Footsteps approach. An employee—I can tell from the scrubs and name tag—stands over me. She peers over her wire-rimmed glasses to look down at me. “You can’t sit here.”
“Why not?”
Her gaze lands on my wristband. “You’re a patient? You should go back to your room.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
Mom is staring at my painting when I return to my room. Her profile is backlit by the window and she’s covering her mouth with a hand, so I can’t read her expression.
I don’t think she heard me arrive. It’d be so easy to turn around and walk away. On the other hand, I’ve got to talk to her sometime.
“Why are you here?” I ask. It’s as good an opening line as any.
She startles. “I didn’t hear you.” She points to the painting. “Did you do this?”
“Who else would do it?”
“Darby.”
I tuck my hands into my sweatshirt sleeves. “I worked on it this morning.”
“It’s beautiful. All the colors. Did you make this up, or is it someone’s eye?” Mom—the detail person. She probably thinks she’s showing interest by asking me about my art, but I think explaining a painting anchors it, chains it to reality, and prevents it from just being.
“Actually, it’s a boy’s eye.”
“From school?”
“No. From here.”
She circles the bed. “The hospital?”
I move to avoid her. “Yeah. His name’s Adam and he’s a patient. We met at physical therapy.”
“Really?” Shock clips her question.
“Surprised that someone would want to talk to me?”
She slaps her thighs with her hands. “No, Darby, but I am surprised that you went to PT. Doctor Wong tells me you haven’t been compliant with your treatment here.”
Oh, gee, I’m in trouble again. I fluff my pillow. “The therapist totally ignores me. What am I supposed to do, sit there and do nothing?”
“She has more than one patient.” Mom logic. No point in arguing.
“Whatever.”
“Right, whatever. If something doesn’t go your way, your response is to push it aside and ignore it.” She fiddles with her bead necklace—her own creation. Creativity is something I inherited from her. She works with jewelry and I work with paint. My mouthiness, on the other hand, is from my dad. The dyslexia … well, that’s pure Darby.
“Fine, I promise to do my exercises then.”
Mom crosses her arms. “Doctor Wong has decided to discharge you. She says you can do outpatient physical therapy and follow up with her at the clinic.”
I gape at her. “That’s news to me. When was the doctor going to tell me, the patient? Guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t tell me you want to stay here.” Mom gestures to the room.
I don’t, but … “It’s better than home.”
Her face falls. The weight of dealing with me, the snarky, non-compliant, bad twin, must be unbearable. “You can’t mean that.”
“It’s obvious you don’t want me there. How many days has it been since you’ve visited? Have you buried Daniel without me? I bet the whole town showed up.” My heart shivers at the thought of missing Daniel’s funeral. Then again, I don’t think I could’ve handled it anyway. “Is he in the ground?”
Mom nods. “Yes. We thought it’d be easier for you to focus on healing.”
“Thanks for giving me the choice.”
“You kicked us out. Honestly, I don’t understand you at all.”
“I’ll try to make better sense from now on.” I pick at a pastel giraffe appliqué (surprise, the mural isn’t painted at all, but is a bunch of stickers glued on the wall).
Mom huffs. She yanks open the closet door, drags the duffle bag from the top shelf, and starts stuffing my clothes inside.
“What’re you doing?”
“Packing. You’re coming home tonight.”
I scramble to her, tweaking my neck in the process. Jolts of electric fire scream down my arms. My head swirls. I
retreat to the bed. “Whoa.”
Mom drops the bag and rushes over. “What happened?”
I’d shoo her away, but the idea of moving right now brings a fresh layer of sweat to my skin. “Nothing. I twisted my neck wrong.”
She sits next to me. “You have to be careful.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes I think your emotions erupt from you like lava and then you act without thinking.” She rests her hand on my knee.
I study her hand, the fine wrinkles in her skin, her flawless French manicure, and the amber ring on her middle finger. I’ve always admired her hands. They’re so graceful, clean, and delicate. The opposite of me. “I’m a volcano.”
“Sometimes.”
I bite my lip.
“You could use your fire for so much more productive things than fighting.”
I try not to groan. “Mom.”
She pats my thigh. “Your father’s coming soon. He’ll bring your art supplies to the car. Want to help me pack?”
If I leave tonight, I’ll never see Adam again. I don’t have his number, address, email, nothing. This can’t be happening. I can’t let someone else leave my life. I refuse to let it.
Mom goes back to packing.
When I can feel my toes again, I stand up gingerly and take a few steps toward the door. No zaps, thank goodness. At the doorway, I say, “I have to say bye to Adam.”
I’m down the hall before Mom can say anything. She can chase me if she wants, but nothing’s going to stop me.
This volcano is erupting.
Chapter Seventeen
Adam
Doctor Jervis stops by after dinner. His scrubs are wrinkled and his face bears the lines of wearing a surgical mask for hours on end. Today, his surgical cap has racing flames on the sides instead of skulls. At least he has a theme.
Mum and Dad greet him like the god he is with double-fisted handshakes and bursting smiles.
“How’s our young patient?” Dr. Jervis unwinds his stethoscope from his neck and motions for me to lift my shirt. “Let’s have a listen.”
Under My Skin Page 15