Page 73
She looks over my shoulder. “Taking some inspiration today?”
It’s only then I realize I’m sketching out a loosened version of Starry Night—curves and bumps where they shouldn’t be, a lift here or there that’s not found in the original. As if the famous work was applied to an unsmooth, imperfect medium.
Like skin.
I bite my lip and nod. “I zoned out, I think.” And when I zone out I like to replicate Van Gogh’s paintings like a total art freak. I have their brushstrokes memorized because I spent all my time looking at his work instead of learning math and now I’m going to fail because of it.
“I’m just . . . not focused today. I’m sorry.”
She nods, understanding bright in her eyes, leaning against my table as she clicks her nails on the top.
“How are you feeling about the show? About how many pieces do you think you’ll have by then?”
Right.
It’s our midterm, in a way, as she explained it. We have an art show soon in March. I’ve only shown one piece to Dr. Ann, a large ornate vase with no flowers in it, but a few petals on the table it sits atop. She loved it, which made me nearly float out of the classroom that day. But since then I haven’t created much in the way of work I think is ready.
“Good.” I nod. “I’m just still working on a few things at home.”
She smiles. “Great. I can’t wait to see it. And to see what you sell.”
Right. As if that’s not just more pressure on my brain that already seems to be leaking out of both ears.
“Thank you.”
I turn to work on something else for a bit, before checking my phone.
Only to freeze.
Five missed calls from DAD.
Lightheadedness and nausea assault me equally as I jolt up and pack my bag, thanking my professor and sprinting out, not bothering to stop or slow down—even when I hit a few patches of icy snow that aren’t salted over, skidding and turning, panting breathless by the time I reach the arena.
Thank god the campus isn’t massive.
Slamming my shoulder into someone as I round the corner too sharply, I mutter a quick apology and trek on.
“Whoa, whoa! Hold up, pretty girl.”
Holden.
I spin around toward him, my smile slightly forced. His brows dip, but he maintains his usual grin.
“Stalking a certain defenseman?” he asks playfully. “And it’s not me?”
My spine straightens, a blush staining my cheeks. Stalking. I wonder if he knows how close he is to the truth there. If he knows that my fascination with Toren has always bordered on obsession.
“I’m— I have a thing I’m late for actually. So—”
I cut myself off with a wave, taking off to where I can see my father already outside his office, as if he was leaving but then clocked me coming down the hall.
Whatever blush might’ve been staining in my cheeks from the handsome hockey player melts away to pure pale fear as I slow to a normal, appropriate walk.
“Hello, Dad,” I say, ducking my chin just slightly. I hate looking away from him, when I can attempt to read his facial expressions; if I look away, then I don’t know what exactly to expect.
“Are you late for a reason or just laziness? Or did you just forget entirely?”
He doesn’t let me finish, before shaking his head and mumbling something beneath his breath I don’t hear—but don’t dare ask him to repeat in case he goes on a lecture about my hearing. Which is arguably worse.
