Reckless Art

The studio was too quiet.

  Most students had rushed out the moment class ended, eager to escape the stuffy air and the lingering smell of oil paint and charcoal. I stayed behind, as usual. My latest piece a charcoal sketch of a woman with her back turned, her form fractured by jagged, uncertain lines lay unfinished before me.

  I pressed my thumb into the paper, smudging the shading beneath the figure's shoulder. It didn't help. Nothing ever did.

  What am I even trying to say with this?

  The thought made my chest tighten.

  Professor Langley would have sighed, circled the page with red ink, and scrawled “Lacks emotional depth" in the margins. Again.

  I exhaled, rubbing my temples. Maybe I should just

  "Interesting technique are you Struggling?"

  The voice, deep and smooth as aged whiskey, came from just behind me. I startled, nearly knocking over my jar of brushes. Jerome Laurent stood close enough that I could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. 

  "Professor Laurent," I managed, my throat suddenly dry. "I didn't hear you come in." 

  My pulse stuttered.

  "I didn't know anyone was still here," I said, too quickly.

  "Obviously." He pushed off the door and stepped inside. His boots were silent against the scuffed wooden floor. "Class ended at four. It's nearly six."

  I swallowed. "I lost track of time."

  His gaze flicked to my sketch.

  His lips quirked. "Evidently." He stepped closer, his cologne something woodsy with a hint of spice wrapping around me. "May I?" 

  Before I could answer, his hand covered mine, guiding the charcoal across the page. His skin was warm, his fingers calloused in a way that suggested he practiced what he taught. 

  "Your lines are too careful," he murmured, his breath stirring the hair at my temple. "Art should be reckless. Like this." 

  He pressed harder, the charcoal snapping as it tore across the paper. The sudden violence of it sent a shiver down my spine. 

  "See how it breathes now?" His thumb brushed mine as he released my hand. "You're holding back." 

  "Well?" | muttered, staring hard at my sketch.

  "Is it boring too?"

  A low chuckle. "I didn't say boring. I said

  safe “He reached out, and I held my breath as his fingers hovered over the paper. "This?" His fingertip traced the air above the fractured lines. "It's technically good. The shading's decent. But it's empty."

  I bristled. "It's abstract!”

  "No." His voice dropped. "It's afraid."

  I looked up, and his eyes God, those eyes

  held mine. "You're hiding."

  The words hit like a slap. My throat burned.

  He leaned in, just slightly. "Art isn't about pretty lines, Rachel." His voice was rough, intimate. "It's about tearing yourself open and letting people see what's inside. Even the ugly parts. Especially

  the ugly parts."

  I exhaled, shaky. "And if I don't like what's inside?"

  His thumb brushed the edge of the paper 

  so close to my hand. "Then you're not looking hard enough."

  I swallowed hard. "I—I don't know how to do it any other way." 

  Jerome tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse flutter. "Don't you?" His gaze dropped to my mouth for the briefest second. "I think you do. You're just afraid to try." 

  The double meaning hung between us, thick as the charcoal dust in the air. 

  When he reached to adjust my grip again, his fingers lingered just a heartbeat too long. "The best art," he said softly, "comes from crossing lines you thought you'd never dare to cross." 

  Then he was gone, leaving me staring at the dark smudge where his hand had covered mine, the paper still warm from his touch. 

  Outside, the wind blew really loudly or maybe that was just the blood roaring in my ears. 

  I touched the spot he'd marked, his words echoing in my mind. 

  Crossing lines.

  For the first time in years, my fingers itched to create something dangerous. 

  And for the first time ever, I was tempted to follow.

  My hands shook a little as I wrapped each charcoal stick. Jerome's words "You're hiding" stayed in my mind like a stubborn stain. My unfinished drawing sat on the table, looking back at me like it knew all my secrets.

  The door closed behind him with a quiet click. Suddenly the room felt too big and too empty. The air still held the warmth of his presence, but now it was just me and my thoughts.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump. It was Jack “Coffee in 10? Usual place?" The message looked so plain, so ordinary. Nothing like the way Jerome's eyes had looked right through me, like he could see things no one else noticed.

  I typed "Sure" without thinking. It was easier to say yes than to wonder why my heart was still beating fast, or why meeting Jack suddenly felt like putting on shoes that didn't fit anymore.

  The coffee shop is loud, full of chattering students and the hiss of the espresso machine. I sit across from Jack, stirring my latte long after the sugar has dissolved. He’s scrolling through his phone, his thumb flicking absently over the screen. A notification chimes Jessica’s name pops up and his mouth twitches into a smile. 

  I take a slow sip of my coffee. It’s gone cold. 

  “So,” I say, just to fill the silence. “Did you finish your poli-sci paper?” 

  “Hmm?” He doesn’t look up. “Oh. Yeah. Turned it in this morning.” 

  I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. The waitress refills his water, her fingers lingering near his wrist a second too long. He doesn’t notice. 

  He never notices.

  I trace the rim of my cup. “We should do something this weekend. It’s been a while since we—” 

  “Oh, shit,” he cuts me off, finally locking his phone. “I can’t. I promised Jessica I’d help her move into her new apartment.” 

  Of course he did.

  I press my lips together. “Right.” 

  He reaches across the table, pats my hand like I’m a dog. “Next weekend, okay?” 

  I don’t answer. 

  His phone buzzes again, and he’s back to smiling at the screen. 

  I watch him, this boy I’ve spent three years loving, and realize I don’t even know him anymore.

  Maybe I never did. 

  The TV drones in the background, some sports highlight reel Jack isn’t really watching. He’s lying on his bed, one arm behind his head, the other texting. I sit at the edge, my sketchbook open in my lap. 

  “You’re quiet tonight,” he says, without looking at me. 

  I press my charcoal harder into the paper. “Just thinking.” 

  “About?” 

  About how your eyes never light up when I walk in anymore. About how you haven’t kissed me like you mean it in months. About how I’m just… here.

  “Nothing,” I say. 

  He hums, disinterested. 

  I flip to a fresh page and start sketching quick, jagged lines. A face takes shape. Sharp jaw. Unreadable eyes. Jerome.

  Jack peers over. “Who’s that?” 

  I slam the book shut. “No one.” 

  He shrugs and goes back to his phone. 

  And I realize he doesn’t even care enough to ask twice.