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‘I have paint on my face?’
He leans forward with his brush and swipes once along my jaw. ‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve watched too many rom-coms,’ I tell him, shaking my head, because I know how this is meant to go. And yet, I can’t help myself. I grab my brush and draw a line of blue on his left cheekbone, just below his glasses.
His smile splits open a trench in my heart, and for the first time, I want to put seeds down to see what could grow there if I nurtured it.
As we continue painting our masterpieces, every so often one of us will take a swipe at the other with their brush. We develop unspoken rules; we have to alternate streaks, we can’t hit the samespot twice, and we need a different colour every time. It’s ridiculous, but I’ve come to realise that this is often the case when it comes to Finn and me.
After a particularly successful attempt, he looks at me and says, ‘Red’s a good colour on you. You should wear it more often.’
When Rosetta comes to check up on us and heaves a sigh at our paint-splattered faces, it sends us into a fit of laughter.
‘I feel like I’ve been told off at school,’ Finn says between laughs, the sound seeping through my skin.
Once Rosetta’s made it to the front of the room, she shakes her tambourine again to get everyone’s attention. ‘You have five minutes left, everyone, so start finishing up.’
I use my phone as a mirror to start cleaning my face while Finn does the same with his, and we’re quiet for a while as we concentrate, sharing a pot of clean water, our legs angled towards each other under the table. I glance over at him at one point, and somehow, even with bright yellow across his forehead, his eyes are the brightest thing on his face.
‘How’s my face?’ he asks after a few minutes, leaning forward and sending me a lopsided smile that makes my heart do a little flip. Just a tiny one.
‘Paintless,’ I reply. I look back at my phone and move my head around to get all the angles. I think I’m all clear too. ‘What about mine?’
He licks his lips and I feel like he’s about to say something else, but in the end he just says, ‘You missed a spot.’
‘Where?’ I contort my neck some more but can’t see anything.
He clears his throat. ‘Can I?’
I nod and he picks up a fresh tissue before dipping it into the water. We swivel in our seats until we’re facing each other, his legs either side of mine. He peels a few strands of hair from wherethey’ve stuck to the paint just under my jaw, before moving all of it to the opposite shoulder.
Every movement is gentle and considered, like he’s handling something delicate. I close my eyes, because I’m too aware of him, and I’m worried about what he might see if he looks too close.
He takes my chin with his left hand, softly moving my head to the side so he has better access to the paint. There’s no chance he can’t tell my skin is heating everywhere he’s touching me, can’t feel my erratic pulse thumping like it’s trying to make an escape.
When I open my eyes, I find his own, pupils wide, sweeping across my face like he’s committing every feature to memory. If my heart did a tiny flip before, now it’s winning gold at the Olympics, twirling and leaping around my chest. His voice is barely a whisper. ‘Perfect.’
There’s a loud clap and we jump apart. Rosetta yells, ‘Alright everyone, please finish what you’re doing. Leave your pieces on your table—since this is an express session, they’ll be ready for you to pick up tomorrow after they’ve been fired in the kiln. All the information is on the pamphlets. Let me know if there’s anything else you need from me. Thank you so much for coming!’
There’s a chorus ofthank yous and a low buzz as people pack their stuff away.
‘Finn,’ I begin, not looking at him. ‘I don’t want to be scared.’ I scratch at a line on my coaster. ‘But I want something that makes sense.’
He waits for me to meet his eyes. I can feel him searching for something in mine. ‘What about this doesn’t make sense, Ava?’ Maybe he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, because when Rosetta drops a tub of paintbrushes up front, he glances over and says, ‘I’m gonna see if she needs any help.’
He’s removed his apron and has shot out of his seat before I’veeven registered what he said.
By the time my heart has eased back into a medically appropriate rhythm, I’ve removed my apron and tidied the table as best I can, but when I look around I realise Finn is nowhere to be seen. I make my way up to the front, where Rosetta is packing things into boxes.
‘Hi, I was wondering if you’ve seen my friend, the one I was, uh, painting with,’ I finish weakly.
She floats past me in a swish of fabric and says, ‘Ah yes, the young man has been helping me carry some things to the storeroom. I usually have an assistant but she couldn’t make it tonight, and my wrists just can’t handle carrying things nowadays. Arthritis. Can’t even do much painting anymore.’
‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback.
‘Be a dear and take these to the storeroom too, would you?’
Before I can either accept or protest, she places a cardboard box in my arms and perches another two on top, where they wobble precariously.
