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Gulp.
His gaze was hooded as he patted the space beside him. I quickly slid the hot water bottle under the duvet before nervously slipping out of my dress. Shay’s eyes never left me, and I shivered under the intensity of his stare.
Too cold to get into bed in only my underwear, I pulled on an old T-shirt before climbing under. As hoped, Shay’s large body had warmed up the bed significantly. Well, there was also the fact he dragged me into his arms and surrounded me completely. His heat trickled soothingly into my bones as he spooned me from behind, and I was able to forget how freezing the flat felt only minutes ago.
I was far too buzzed to sleep, especially because Shay was running his nose along the curve of my neck, up to the line of my jaw. I trembled, sliding my hand along his strong forearm where it rested on my stomach.
Needing a distraction, I asked, “Can I have one of your bird pictures to hang on my wall?”
His nuzzling ceased, his fingers touching my chin and encouraging me to look at him. The tilt of his head and slant of his eyes held a silent question. Why?
I swallowed thickly. “Well, that wall over there is decidedly bare. I’ve always wanted to fill it with art, but I never got around to it.”
There was something magnetic in his eyes, and I could tell by his look he wasn’t satisfied with my answer, even if it was true. It was only part of the truth, though.
Clearing my throat, I went on, “Looking at your art makes me feel …” I trailed off, trying to pinpoint the exact feeling Shay’s art gave me. I saw how he stared at me, waiting for me to finish like it mattered to him. “It makes me feel hopeful,” I said at last. “Your art has this way of releasing the tension inside me,” I rubbed at a spot on my upper chest, just below my throat. His hand covered mine, some kind of emotion in his gaze I couldn’t interpret. It was a mixture of so many things, pain, longing, happiness, relief, and I didn’t understand how what I’d said could solicit such a concoction of emotions.
“You don’t have to give me a picture. It was just a random thought.” Shay was still staring at me, still with that intense look on his face. “What?” I whispered. “Did I say something wrong?”
He shook his head, then reached for his phone where he’d left it on my nightstand. I stared at the handsome lines of his profile while he typed.
“I don’t really share my art anymore,” the voice said.
I stroked a dark strand of hair away from his face. “But you’ve shared it with me. And your dad has one of your pictures hanging in the kitchen at your house.”
“Yes, but that’s different.”
“Different how?”
His eyes were full of tenderness as they swept over my features. “We’re close. I feel safe with my family.” A pause. “With you.” My heart pounded, emotion rising. “It’s a whole other thing sharing art with the general public. People will judge it without affection, without knowing the artist behind the work.”
“Are you afraid of criticism?” I could certainly understand if he was. Sharing your creations with strangers who might tear them apart was surely terrifying in its own way.
“No, not that. Not entirely,” he typed, then stopped as he considered his answer before continuing, “I’m afraid of letting myself want it like I used to. I’m afraid of putting my entire self into creating and then having the rug pulled out from under me again. Ever since I met you, I’ve felt the desire to share my creativity returning, but it also brings me back to a tough time. When I was in my final year at NCAD, Mam received her cancer diagnosis. My parents were both distraught, and someone had to step up and take care of things. At the same time, I hadn’t felt like making art at all. What had been a daily activity crumbled to dust. My well was empty, and it devastated me. This was on top of the fear and worry over Mam’s illness. It was so bad I couldn’t focus on anything, so I dropped out. I put all my energy into supporting my parents through a difficult time, all the while having a vague idea I would get back to my old self eventually, go back to college, finish my degree. Once Mam was better, things would go back to normal. But she didn’t get better, and I never went back to college. That ambition to be an artist died, and I made my peace with it. I guess things did get back to normal, but a different kind of normal.”
