Chapter 1

Chapter One

September

I have always been hard on myself, self-critical, and unable to give myself grace. That is a symptom of being raised with people who see only what is lacking in you.

I have been staring at the painting I am planning to submit to the school art council for approval for hours. Even though I know it is done and there is nothing I could add to it to improve it, I can't bring myself to wrap it up and prepare it for submission.

When unsure about something, I seethe, ruminate, and check out everything around me. I admit this is not smart, but that is my process.

“Are you just going to look at it?” My first reaction is to shiver due to the proximity of the voice, but then, literally milliseconds after, I remember to jump because I am startled. My body falls off the stool, bumping into the easel. I watch in horror when my paint cans teeter at the same time as my painting begins to fall. Shocked and panicked, I gasped, putting my hands to my mouth when an angel on paint-saving wings, Trevor, the TA in my history of art class, catches my painting right before it becomes color soup.

“Oh my gosh. Thank you so much.” I say to him, my heart hammering in my chest because all of this was just too much for a couple of seconds it took to happen.

“It was my pleasure, September.” Holy heck, he knows my name. I mean, he is the TA in my class, but he has to have how many students between my class and the other history class? But he remembers my name. I should be looking at him, right? I should be talking to him or… heck, I don’t know. I have zero experience with this. Did I mention I have been crushing on him since the first day of class? I have always been shy, and age seems to have done nothing to change that. Hence, I am standing before the most gorgeous guy I have ever seen and looking down. “Are you going to look at me, Red?” his finger lifts my chin.

Realizing what he called me, I put my hand on my hip and scowled at him because I hated that nickname, and he was one to talk. “Really? You wanna call me Red? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

There is something to be said for a smile making a man sexier than he already is. On the first day of class, I walked in, head down, checking my satchel and ensuring I had everything in it. I tripped at least five times before the deepest, hottest voice I have ever heard washed over me. I looked up, and I swear I thought I had jumped back like thirty years because the man in front of me looked just like a younger, well, much younger Kenneth Branagh. Did I mention I love Kenneth Branagh?

He stood before the projector, his red hair and light skin mimicking mine. My eyes tracked his every move; he has been my spank bank man ever since.

Trevor throws his head back and laughs; this throaty, Adam's apple-bobbing laugh sends goosebumps up my arms. “There she goes, " he says, looking me square in the eyes. Now, do you want to tell me what you're thinking?” I turn to look back at my painting and frown.

“I’m just not sure if this is good enough. It seems too…radical for the exhibit, don’t you think?” I can see him assessing it, and I want him to like it more than I thought I would. I see his critical dissection much like how he does in class when he leads the lesson, which makes me nervous.

“Why do you think that?” he asks. Shrugging my shoulders, I try to articulate what I am thinking.

“I think it is too vibrant. I went back through the previous year’s entries, and they were all subdued, muted, serious. Mine tends to be…more celebratory. Maybe that’s the wrong word. I don’t know, I guess it just doesn’t seem sophisticated. It's like a kid with their first set of crayons and they just want to use all of the colors as soon as possible.” See, critical.

He regards me for a second or two before he holds his hand out. “I want to take you somewhere. Come with me?” he phrases it as a question, but the way he looks at me, I don’t think it is. I look at his hand and feel like somehow, if I take it, I am agreeing to something else. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and decide to jump.

“Okay. Where are we going?” I ask, curious because he seems so excited.

“You’ll see.” He pulls me toward him, and we begin to walk.

“We’re walking?”

“Everybody walks in New York,” he says, chuckling. We walk for a while in silence. “We’re here.”

Trying not to smile too wide, I look up in just enough time to see a bevy of different things happening in front of my eyes. “Wow!” I exclaim seriously, unable to find another description. “Where are we?”

“Welcome to the art district.” Holy cow! I have heard about this part of the city but haven’t been brave enough to venture outside the university walls yet. I seriously regret that decision now.

“This is amazing.” I turn on circles as we walk, taking it all in.

“I brought you here because I want you to see art as it was intended. Subjective. Brought to life with the creator's mind. Art should never be held back. Restricted or relegated to a context according to anyone other than you, September. Your painting is vibrant, alive and do you know what I see when I look at it?” Biting my lip, trying not to cry at all of his sweet words, I shake my head. His thumb touches my cheek, wiping a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “I see a painting of love of oneself. I get the sense that this is the first time you have felt seen and free. I see possibilities, beautiful, and that is something worth sharing.”

Holy shit. He saw all of that in my painting? Now that he has said it out loud, that is precisely what was going through my mind when I was painting it, but hearing him say it makes it seem perfect. “Thank you,” I whisper, feeling shy again. And like last time, he lifts my chin and smiles at me.

“You’re welcome. Now, let’s go see everything.” For the next few hours we visit a dressmaker, a sculptor, a man who makes the most beautiful wood carvings I have ever seen. A masonry and someone who makes the best artsy jewelry ever. I bought like two pairs of earrings, a necklace, two bracelets and a set of hair accessories.

This has been the best day of my life. How do I keep it from ending?