The Story Of Us Part 13

"Yeah."

Chapter 20.

Cancun, Mexico 27 Months Ago "You're quiet," Maverick says.

We've ordered our food, and I haven't said anything since. Maverick is leaving in the morning, and that's it. He'll go back to law school and I'll go back my dreaded computer science cla.s.ses, and the six days we shared here will be no more than a memory.

"Sorry," I say. "I guess I'm tired."

He studies me for a moment, and unbidden my gaze floats up to his. Once there, I can't look away. He has me hypnotized, and I'm scared he'll see right through me. I hate that Finley has this kind of superpower over me, and I hate that Maverick seems to have it too. Am I that transparent?

"I don't want to hear bulls.h.i.+t, Alieya," he murmurs, his voice low and heavy and rubbing me the wrong way. If I'm so d.a.m.n obvious, then this shouldn't be difficult to figure out.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask, biting back the sting in my throat. I've worked myself up in the last few days. The inevitable isn't something we talked about, and the nagging feeling in my gut has only grown. I don't want what we have to end.

Maverick reaches for my hands and rubs his thumbs over the backs of them. "The truth."

Should I? Probably not. Every instinct I have screams at me to lie. Make something up, you idiot! they yell. Remember Chris? Remember what he said, what he did to you?

They're right. That kind of trust isn't built in a week. This truth is ingrained in me, so I have no idea why I open my mouth. "You're leaving tomorrow; me, the next day."

Maverick smirks. "Are you saying you're going to miss me?"

I don't know why he's grinning, but the small action makes the tension roll off of me.

"Maybe."

"Just maybe? I'm not going to tell you my secret for just 'maybe.'"

"A secret?" I repeat. "Is this some CIA thing regarding Finley's and my arrest?"

"More like your plea bargain."

Just like that, I'm smiling. Smiling, even though I'm anxious as h.e.l.l what I'm about to admit and what he's going to say.

"All right. Yes, I'm going to miss you."

He sits back, smug, and crosses his arms. "Good. Because I'm going to miss you. In fact, I'm going to miss you so much that I've been doing some checking. J. Vernon University has a top-rated art program and it's only four and a half hours from Chicago. Application deadline is next month."

I blink. Stare at him as his words soak in. "Are you...You want me to transfer schools?"

Maverick leans forward onto his elbows. "You have a gift, one you love. Don't let fear hold you back from learning how to use it."

My mind starts to spin. What he's suggesting, it won't work. I told him before why I have to stick with computer science. I wish it could be different. I wish I could drop everything at home and move and pursue art like Pica.s.so, but it's not possible.

I shake my head. "I can't afford to leave. I get in-state tuition where I am. I live at home to save money. I can't do those things in Illinois. Plus my mom, I can't just spring this on her. She depends on me."

I find it's easier to come up with reasons why I can't. They're at the forefront of my brain.

"Listen. You can get a scholars.h.i.+p. They offer on-campus jobs, and we can figure out housing. You have all summer to work on a new plan for your home responsibilities. Nothing is impossible."

He's adamant, has an answer for everything, and I'm again speechless. I'd be leaving my mother, my sister, Finley, and living on my own hundreds of miles away. I don't even own a reliable car. What if I need help?

"It'll get you out of that town," Maverick says. "Away from Chris."

"He doesn't bother me anymore."

"Maybe not, but he's still there, and I don't want you anywhere near him."

"Are you getting all protective of me?" I tease.

Maverick doesn't smile. "Yeah, I am."

That wasn't the answer I expected. His face is serious, eyes hard, and lips pulled tight.

"Alieya, you said the other night that I left a mark on you. You've left one on me too, and I'm not ready to let you go."

I wasn't expecting that either. Hoped for it, sure, but I never believed he'd say it. And now that he has, I don't have an answer. What he's asking is so big. That he's not ready to say goodbye is even bigger.

"I'm not ready either," I whisper.

"Then let's do this. You can come a little early for interviews and stay with me until cla.s.ses start."

"You make it sound easy."

"It won't be, but I don't care. I want you in my life."

"Okay," I hear myself say.

Maverick smiles, and all I can see is bright, bright yellow.

Chapter 21.

Present Day 6:03 a.m.

I can't bring myself to draw Maverick. Not his face, anyway. So I settle on his hand. There's an IV sticking out of his vein, and I concentrate on that.

The first twenty-four hours are critical, they said. I have to be here when Mav wakes, and if I retreat further into the gray, I won't be.

And so I draw. Lines flow from my fingertips, curving and changing directions as I allow myself to get consumed. I glance up often, keeping focused only on the image I'm depicting.

I breathe, slow inhales and exhales, studying every angle, every crinkle in the blanket his hand rests on. Each little detail. Those are what make art come alive and reach down into a person's soul.

I contemplate the angles, creating a picture of a single moment in time. Nothing stays the same, and if you don't capture the whole image in your mind quickly, it changes in a second.

But not today. Maverick holds perfectly still, nothing moving, nothing changing. Even the lighting remains consistently dim.

I shade in the eggplant bruising around his IV. The tape holding it down is tricky. The texture throws me, and I erase my first attempt. The second is better, good enough to move on to the tube. When the focal point of the drawing is finished, I start on the shadows. I add depth by adjusting the pressure I'm using against the paper and directing the reflection of the lighting until Maverick's hand resembles what it does in real life.

I study the finished product for a second with Finley peering over my shoulder. I hate that I can compare the representation with the real thing like this. Maverick shouldn't be a still.

"What do you think?" Finley asks softly.

"That I despise it," I say, matching her tone. "I hate how he has that tube stuck into his vein. I hate the unnatural tone of his skin. I hate the way he just lies there. It's like..." I look at her. "It's like the calm before a storm."

Finn nods.

"What if this is the end, Finn?"

"The end of what?"

"The end of us."

"It's not, Ali. Maverick will fight with everything he has to get back to you."

"What if that isn't enough?"

"Deep inside, do you really believe that?"

My gaze meets hers. She's determined, yet reserved, because she's here for me. To keep me strong, from going under. It doesn't matter if Maverick has it in him or not, only that I believe he does.

Hope has that kind of power.

I bob my head. "Yeah, he does. Of course, he does."

Finley nods with me.

"Now add color," she says, handing me the bag of oil pencils she packed. "A lot of blue. Blue is calming, right?"

I hesitate. I don't see color in my mind, and if I don't see it there, it won't be right on paper.

"Color," Finley insists. She digs through the bag and hands me midnight blue.

I shake my head. "Not calming."

"Turquoise?"

"No. Lighter."

She squints at the lettering. "Air-ig-gr-ean? Who names these things?"

"Aegean. Do you want the easy answer or the complicated one?"

"Easy. Duh."

"The company who made the pencils."

She finds two more that I reject. "How many blues are there?" Her attention snaps to me. "Or are you stalling? Or just being finicky?"

Both, I think, but I don't say it. Finley is Finley, so I'll add color. I s.h.i.+ft through the pencils in the bag until I find glaucous. If I were painting, I'd add some lace white to soften it further. For now, though, this will have to do.

I barely touch the page as I skim the pencil over the paper. Normally I'd add color during the layering process, and since I'm not actually seeing the blue through the gray, I want a light hue.

Finley remains quiet, and when I'm finished, she frowns. I know what she's going to say before she says it, so I stop her before she speaks.

"I'm not pus.h.i.+ng you or anyone out. I'm just not seeing it inside me yet."

"Isn't that the purpose of this?" she wonders.

"It can't be forced, Finn. I'm sorry."

My attention moves to J.J. who walked in. "Another blood draw," she says.

I put my sketchbook aside to take Maverick's hand and hold it to my lips. I can't stand needles, but a few months ago, Mav told me he didn't mind them. A quick p.r.i.c.k, a count to ten, and it's over. Simple, he said.

"You're not the one getting p.r.i.c.ked," I answered, holding my arm out to the technician.

"Come here."

I closed my eyes and nuzzled against his chest. The needle went in, and I cringed.

"One. Two. Three. Four..." he counted, his voice soothing me. "Ten."

"All done," the tech said as he pulled the needle out and pressed a cotton ball to the inside of my elbow.

Now, even though J.J. is drawing through a tube, I rest my head against Maverick's shoulder and whisper, "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten."

The clock reads 6:21 a.m. They said the first twenty-four hours are critical.

Five have pa.s.sed. There're too many to go.

Chapter 22.