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Because it was clear to me then, that these desperate feelings of mine were completely one-sided.

I hated it. Hated the constant underlying feeling that I was all alone in this world. Stranded on an island with my SOS drawn in the sand and no one there to rescue me.

I was still working on that part: rescuing myself.

Fifteen Before

WHEN WE WALKEDinto his bedroom, it took about one-point-two seconds for my attention to be completely diverted elsewhere, because up on his wall, above his bed, was an original black and white painting, by thefreaking Ace.

“Shut. Up!” Excitement had effectively flowed into all the melancholy spaces of my heart.

“I didn’t say anything,” Greyson chuckled, drawing out his words in confusion.

I’m not sure I even registered what he said before barreling on. “No. Way. No way!” I spun around on him.

Again, with the confusion on his end.

I pointed at the painting. “You havean AcePainting?!”

“A who?” he quietly laughed again. If I wasn’t so excited, I might’ve stopped to admire the way his eyes were shining with amusement—at me. But again, the painting!

“Aramis Clair-Edouard? I love him—love his pieces. Like, obsessed, and now I’m secretly contemplating knocking you over the head with something so I can steal it and run far, far away. Would totally be worth the jail time,” I finished that last sentence under my breath, which only made him smile wider.

“You really love art, don’t you?” he asked sincerely, his eyes contemplative, maybe even finding these little bits and pieces of me interesting.

“I do,” I sighed, sitting down on the edge of his bed. I truly did. I loved the way art said different things to everyone. Loved the way a hundred different people could look at one painting, or photograph, or drawing and see completely different things. Could walk away from it with a hundred different emotions and feelings and ideas.

I loved the way there were an infinite amount of ways you could express yourself through it.

I told him all of this, and he seemed to really take it in, visibly sifting through all of my words. Time sort of stood still then, with me on his bed and him standing in front of the painting, both of us simply staring at it for a long while. My eyes swept over the chaos of lines, and squiggles, and pictures within pictures that formed the whole painting before us.

“I guess I never thought of it like that before,” he eventually said, turning to face me. “I assumed a painting was a painting and we all saw what was obviously there. But you’re absolutely right.” He sat down next to me, the bed dipping down with his weight, forcing me closer. “It’s like music. There are lyrics, and everyone hears the same ones, but it doesn’t mean they hear them the same way, you know?”

He turned to face me, and I instantly got lost, trapped in his gaze. I was such an idiot. We’d gotten way too close. It wasn’t safe there, where I was so close that I could see every little speck of green that made up Greyson’s perfect pair of eyes. Close enough that I could accurately imagine the way his cheek would feel against my palm. So close that I could reach up and fist his black shirt in my hand, and so close that I could pull him in a few inches and press my lips to his.

I forced a breath in and out of my lungs. And again. “Totally,” I said, mildly breathless. It was a decent enough attempt.

He smiled, his tongue sliding out momentarily to wet his lips.

“I think all art is like that,” I continued, eyes glued to his mouth. “In all its forms.”

When I looked back up at Greyson’s eyes, I found that his gaze had been drawn tomymouth, but he quickly cleared his throat, standing from the bed, gripping the back of his neck with both hands. “Couldn’t agree more,” he said, his voice rough.

It was like an arrow shot straight to my core.Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him!it screamed.

No. No way, I shook off the thought. He’d have to make that move. If we kissed, I wanted to know with one-hundred percent certainty that it was exactly what he wanted. He already knew I liked him; I didn’t need to make a bigger ass out of myself.

So even though he was doing it again, looking at me with unspoken words that said anything but friendship, nothing happened. He didn’t pull me into him, and he didn’t kiss me.

Instead, he pulled a guitar to his chest.

“So…” he started. “There’s an open mic tonight.”

It took a few beats for it to click. “And you’re going to play?” I treaded cautiously.Was this really happening?

“I was thinking I might have enough balls to go up and sing this time.” He looked down at his guitar, taking a single pass over the strings with his thumb.

Breath in. Breath out.Totally calm.“And I get to come watch?”