Sweet Nothing(58)

When we get to the door, Luke fumbles around his pockets and pulls out his electronic key.

“Wait here for a sec, okay?”

I’d search his face, but it’s too dark. “Yeah. Sure.”

Luke unlocks the door and ducks inside. Now I’m more than just slightly curious. He has a habit of doing this to me, a way of making me feel completely comfortable and then absolutely disoriented at the exact same time.

I lean against the building’s exterior, breathing in the dewy air. I wonder what Aria’s doing right now: listening to music that’s turned up loud enough to drown out our mother, or maybe writing our father or planning the visit I just can’t seem to understand. I feel a quick flash of liquid anger. She shouldn’t be doing any of those things at 17. She should be sneaking her boyfriend through the back door, or staying out too late, or freaking out about her SATs. And I should be closer than I am, in case she needs me.

Or maybe it’s better that I’m far away. I’m not exactly a shining example at the moment. What would Aria think if she knew I was hiding my true identity, my past? It’s not a question I need to ask. I know she’d be furious. She’d accuse me of running from my family, of trying to run from myself. She’d be right.

The door opens wide. “Okay. Ready.” Luke takes my hand and guides me inside, locking the door behind us.

The light is dim, and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. My body registers the room with a rush of adrenaline before my mind can make sense of what’s in front of me: candles. On the concrete floor, on the long work tables, casting shadows over the student art pinned to the white walls. At the back of the studio there’s a small sitting area, with an inviting leather couch and a paint-splattered loveseat. I imagine Luke curled up on the couch during late nights in the studio.

“So, I’m pretty sure this is a fire hazard,” I joke. I regret it the instant the words leave my mouth. It’s beautiful, the way he has the space set up. And he’s obviously excited to share his studio with me. I have no right to cheapen the surprise with a joke.

If Luke is upset, he doesn’t show it. “Wait. You haven’t even noticed the best part yet.” His excitement is palpable. He leads me to the back of the studio, where a large canvas rests on an easel.

“Oh, my God. What…” I take a few steps toward the canvas. It’s a collaged portrait of me, an image made of scraps of paper, paint, and even bits of glass. “It’s beautiful.” It sounds strange, calling my own image beautiful. But there’s no other word.

“Oh, good. You’re not freaked out.” Luke’s laugh is nervous. “It’s, um… it’s made out of things from New York, and then there are some pieces of Miami, too. Pieces of home, mixed with some stuff from Allford.”

I reach for the glimmer in my eye, made of bits of torn, glossy metro cards. “But… you’ve never been to New York, right?” I trace the warmth in my cheeks, bits of torn red cloth. “What’s this?”

“T-shirt. The heart part of those stupid I heart NY shirts. My grandparents went one year for vacation. Loved it. Dumped all their souvenirs on me, and I never knew what to do with them.” Luke stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “And then, I did.”

My image blurs, then sharpens again as I blink the tears away. To see myself like this is overwhelming, probably because Luke has captured me in exquisite detail. My heartbeat triples as I study the canvas. The portrait feels almost alive, like the woman in front of me has a soul. She’s smiling, but there’s sadness just beyond the spark in her eyes. How did he do that? As Luke pulls me closer, syncs his breathing with mine, I realize that it’s not the art itself that overwhelms me. Terrifies me. It’s knowing that no matter how hard I try to hide, Luke Poulos sees the real me.





chapter twenty-two



Elle,



Why aren’t you responding? Are you really that pissed that I’d want to see Dad? Call me. Please.



Love you for infinity,



A





It's art. It’s just art. Nothing more.

I’m glad he’s standing behind me. I need to collect myself. Swallow the lump in my throat, steady my breath. He can’t see me this shaky. This exposed. But that's the problem. It's too late. He's already seen past the walls you've spent years building. And somehow, he's still here.

“Come here.” Gently, he rests his hands on my shoulders and turns me until I’m facing him. When he concerned, the blue in his eyes darkens to a near-gray. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” A crack threads its way through my voice.