Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

That's the second time I've flung my pencil across the room while trying to start this sketch. I crawl under the desk to retrieve it, my heart pounding, and of course I bang my head along the way.

If everything has happened on schedule today, Cole should be finishing his murder board right about now. I'm on pins and needles waiting to hear how it went. He said he could fail it, in which case he'll have to do it all over again in a few weeks. But I'll be shocked if he fails.

He's studied well for this, and I've had a front row seat to how seriously he takes this qualification. I have no doubt he'll pass with flying colors. And then it'll be on to the final board, then his pinning ceremony. He'll have victory in his grasp.

But there's always a chance something could go wrong at the last minute. He could've slept poorly or forgotten to eat breakfast or tripped in the shower and hit his head and now has amnesia.

He'll be okay. I know he will.

On the other hand, I am floundering. Nothing—no one—has inspired the spark I need to paint well, and I'm caving to my last resort. I've ignored the glaring, blinking signs with Cole's face on them, telling me to "Exit here" on the highway of creativity, and I've been metaphorically driving through the night for as long as possible. Now, I'm running on empty.

The small canvas is finally situated on the easel. With a pencil in hand I close my eyes, and imagine something I've become more and more familiar with: Cole Slaeden's face.

His jawline has a soft curve to it. His nose slopes gently, not sharp or pronounced. His eyes—I'll need more time and practice to get them right, so I rough them in, then give him smoothly arching eyebrows and barely detail his ear shapes. He has the hint of wrestler's ear on his left side. I wonder how he got it.

I set the pencil down and go back with a piece of charcoal, bringing out his cheekbones, then slide the charcoal down the canvas to give a sense of his upper body build. He has a thick neck and solid, muscular shoulders.

Taking a step back, I squint and look sideways at it. Okay, not bad. I got the width of his nose wrong so it kind of looks like someone stepped on his face, but still, the essence of him is there. I actually can't believe it. All those hours of practice might be paying off.

A bubble of pride rises in my chest, and I smile to myself.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and my heart leaps out of my chest. Cole is calling. My hands are shaking as I answer.

"How did it go?" I ask quickly.

"I passed."

I scream into the phone and do a happy dance. He did it. He passed. The phone chimes with a FaceTime request and I accept the video, setting my phone against the coffee mug on the desk.

Cole's sitting in front of a tan cinderblock wall, in his green camouflage uniform, a massive grin on his face. But he looks absolutely wrung-out. His eyes have dark circles under them, and he keeps rubbing his hand down his face.

"You did it! Ah, I can't believe it!" I squeal with delight and do another dance. "How do you feel?"

"I'm so brain-dead, I can't even think. I just walked out and called you right away."

He called me first . I don't know if my heart can take how special that makes me feel. Out of all the people in his life, he wanted to tell me first. I'm so happy for him, I want to wrap my arms around his tired head and hug him forever.

"It's over! You did it!" I say in awe.

"I still have my final board."

"You said it's a formality. You'll be fine."

He nods. "I need to sleep for like a week."

"Cole. I'm so proud of you. I want to hug you or something."

"Tomorrow," he says with a grin.

"You're still going to play tomorrow?" I ask. "You look like a zombie."

"I have less brain capacity than a zombie, but I'm not missing a game. We're going to the championship."

I laugh and shake my head. "I don't know how you do it."

"Haven't you heard? I'm about to be a full-fledged Devil Doc," he says, winking at me. I ache with the need to hug him, to give all this pride an outlet. Maybe even kiss him on the cheek or something. A friendly gesture, not crossing any lines.

"I hate that I don't have my own place," he says. "I'd ask you to come watch movies with me for the rest of the day. Well, you'd watch the movies, I'd sleep. Actually, you probably have stuff to do. Did I interrupt you?"

"Just working on a sketch," I reply, hoping my furtive glances to the corner don't give me away.

"Can I see?" he asks.

"No, it's not ready. It's just a sketch," I say.

"Okay, well, I'm going to go stumble to my room, but I wanted to call you first. Thanks for everything, Tia. Can't wait to see you tomorrow," he says with a sleepy smile.

"Me too," I reply with a goofy grin on my face.

The call ends, and I go back to the canvas. After talking to him, I can see I got the shape of his temples wrong, and the curve of his bottom lip is fuller in real life.

When I close my eyes and picture him again, a fountain of emotion wells up in my chest—pride, happiness, joy, awe.

You have to ask him.

If I paint Cole studying, it's going to have meaning and feeling behind it, the thing that's been missing from all my other projects. I need to go for it. I'm going to ask him.

"What was that?" Aunt Mari asks, from very close behind me, and I jump with a shriek.

"Oh, my friend Cole passed a test," I say with a nervous laugh as my adrenaline dies down.

"Your friend," she says, looking at me with suspicion over her reading glasses.

"Yes."

"Just a friend."

"Yes," I say, determined to stay strong under her all-knowing gaze. "What?"

"Okay, I'm going to San Francisco for a small film festival, then Arizona for an art festival. When I get back in two weeks, you will introduce me to this boyfriend." She leaves before I have a chance to find my words.

I park facing the field, take a deep breath, and remind myself why this is a good idea. We're just friends. This isn't going to lead to anything else. I'm simply asking Cole for a favor—like the favor I did for him when I helped him study. Plus, if the image comes out on canvas as well as I'm picturing it in my mind, it's going to be exactly what Lorraine is looking for and it will fit the vibe of the gallery perfectly. It's almost a selfish request.

I get out of the car and sling my bag over my shoulder, casually scanning the parking lot for Cole. I spy him and Denny standing close together by the Camaro having an intense conversation. Today probably isn't the day to ask Cole to sit for a portrait.

I sink down to the grass to put on my cleats and focus on getting the lacing right. No, not asking him is chickening out, making excuses. I can do this. The worst he could say is no. What if he thinks I'm silly? Or worse, what if he takes it the wrong way and thinks I'm slyly trying to spend more one-on-one time with him? Like I'm subtly trying to seduce him. Okay, even that is a bit far-fetched. I finish with my cleats, giving each of them a quick pat.

"Hey, Tia," Denny calls from behind me. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Yeah, of course."

Denny comes over with Luko and Cole trailing behind him, like a pack of ducklings. The three of them sink down to the grass to quickly put their cleats on.

"Luko, I love you man, but keep your mouth shut while I talk," says Denny.

Okay, then. I look over at Cole with raised eyebrows and he shrugs in response. I look back at Denny, and his expression means business. I bet this is what he looks like when he's doing his job on his ship—focused, collected, intent.

"Here's my question," he says. "If I got butt-dialed by an ex-girlfriend, but I kind of had this one-sided conversation with her and I heard her listening and she only ended the call after I said my old nickname for her, does that mean she still has feelings for me and I should call her back?"

I'm reeling trying to put together a mental image of what Denny's talking about. I think the gist is he thinks he might have a shot with his ex-girlfriend? Because she didn't hang up when she saw she'd butt-dialed him? Denny finally looks up at me with sad and pleading blue eyes, like a lost puppy begging for a home. Poor guy.

"Why can't Luko chime in?" I ask. After our conversation about Cole, I've grown to appreciate his thoughts.

"He's protective of Denny," Cole offers. "He doesn't like Ellis for what she did to Denny, just like he hated Ripley."

"Oh my gosh, it was high school, man," Denny says, raising his voice in frustration. "And Ellis is nothing like Ripley!

"No, no, you're right," Luko says defensively. "Ellis isn't mean, at all. She's great, she's sweet." He sighs and throws his hands up in defeat. "She has a lot of walls up and you're never going to get over them and I want you to stop hurting yourself trying."

Denny nods, then looks at me with waning hope.

"What do you think, Tia?"

I feel like there are years of history between Ellis and Denny that I need to be caught up on before I'm qualified to give any advice. But the other team is arriving and warming up and I don't want to leave Denny hanging. "Maybe the pocket dial put your name back on her mind, so…try to be patient? See if anything comes of it?"

Denny nods, his hands picking at the grass. Luko stands and reaches a hand down to him. Denny takes it and they walk onto the field together with their arms around each other's shoulders.

I look over at Cole and he gives me a sad smile. "Thanks for letting him down gently. I don't think he'll ever get over her."

"That sucks," I say with sympathy, watching Denny lay into a soccer ball and send it shooting into the goal like a cannon.

Cole gets up and I lock eyes with him as he walks over, then pulls me to my feet. We're standing only inches apart and he's not letting go of my hand.

"Oh, hey, congrats on passing your murder board," I murmur, quiet and close, matching the distance between us.

"Thank you," he says, his voice dropping lower to meet mine. His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, and combined with the intensity of his stare, I'm forgetting how to breathe. I'm forgetting everything. All I know are Cole's brown eyes, looking at me, never leaving my face. I have to look away, otherwise I'll be lost in those eyes forever. I pull my hand out of his and clear my throat.

This can't be a thing . It can't.

"I have a favor to ask," I say, gathering my thoughts, looking beyond him so I don't have to look him in the eye.

"Yeah?" His voice rises in interest.

"Um, so, you know how I paint sometimes?"

"You mean how you're an amazing artist?"

My face flushes, and I stammer, trying to find my next words. "Tha-thanks you." Thanks you?! My brain and my stomach are tied in knots. Quick breath, be professional. "Um, I have a chance to have a painting displayed in a gallery on Crown Island, but it has to be a painting of a person. I was wondering if, uh…"

I can't finish this sentence. I can't think of the words I want to say. I'm blanking out and simply staring at Cole. His haircut is fresh, a sharp fade. I have a weakness for fresh haircuts.

"You want to paint a portrait of a person?" he asks, trying to jog my memory.

"Yeah," I say. I can't ask this of him. I want to run back to the car and drive straight home and dive under my comforter and stay there until my embarrassment fades, two hundred years from now.

"Just ask," Cole says gently. "Whatever it is, I'm not going to make fun of you."

I inhale and puff out my cheeks, blowing out a breath.

"Would you let me paint a portrait of you studying for your FMF pin?"

Cole raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to one side, considering it. "Gonna be totally honest, that was not what I was expecting."

"It's fine, ignore me. Don't worry about it. It's no big deal," I say, speed-walking onto the field. I snag a ball and roll it in front of me, dribbling towards one of the goals to do some warm-up kicks. My cheeks are on fire, and I'm struggling to breathe correctly. There's a voice in my head—a mean, laughing voice that sounds an awful lot like Bryce.

You're an embarrassment to yourself.

No, that voice doesn't get to have any power over me anymore. Absolutely not. Out of my head, loser, you suck. I kick the ball extra hard, then dash to go get it out of the goal. No, I'm not embarrassed.

"Tia," says Cole, jogging up to my side as I look straight ahead, line up my next kick, and launch the ball straight into the upper right corner of the goal.

"Tia," Cole says again, this time gently putting his hand on my arm. "Come on, Queenie."

I turn towards him, studying our cleats lined up across from each other in the grass.

"Don't be embarrassed. We're friends. Friends ask each other for things like that."

I don't know if we're really friends. I don't know how to explain it. We are friends, but friends don't have chemistry, they don't have that unique pull that makes you look for each other in a room full of people. Friends don't notice the shape of each other's lips or wonder what it'd be like to kiss them.

But it's more than that. It's not just my attraction to Cole that's made me incredibly self-conscious.

"I've never had friends who were supportive of my art," I say, doing little ankle circles with my toe in the grass. I look up at Cole to see him staring at the goal, his face in profile.

I want to paint that face so badly. Now it's an ache, a thorn in my side that won't be removed until I allow my brush to sweep over the canvas to shape the contours of his forehead, his gently sloped nose?—

"I'll do it. I want you to do it," Cole says.

"What?" I ask.

"Can we do it after my final board, though? It's in a week, and I have to stay focused. After that, I'm all yours."

Frank calls us together for a pre-game huddle before I can do any more than nod to Cole. The Goal Diggers barely eke out the win. Not surprising, given the way I lost focus every time Cole locked eyes with me on the field.

I'm all yours. I've never had such simple words leave me shaking inside. He pulls at my resolve, like a high tide tugging a piece of driftwood back into the sea. I'm going to be swept away if I'm not careful.