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“Cheers!” Drew grins at me with her pinky out like she’s having a tea party. She’s so ridiculous, but I love it.

We sit by the fire, munching on snacks and cuddling close for warmth. Our mothers ramble about random people’s kids’ college decisions on Facebook, and Drew and I sit in yet another comfortable silence, which seems to be a thing for us. However, I’m not surprised, because I could sit with her and watch paint dry for hours and still be entertained. It scares me to death that that’s the effect she has on me.

Underneath the shared blanket thrown across our laps, our legs are pressed against each other’s. I rest my free hand on my knee, and I can feel her do the same.

I continue staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact as our pinkies touch. I feel her wrap her pinky around mine, which sends jolts up my spine. My heart is pounding out of my chest at a million beats per minute, and my body goes stiff, hoping my mother doesn’t notice.

I turn my head to look at Drew, taking in the way she looks in the light of the fire. Her ancient brown eyes now have a warmglimmer in them, contrasting with the paler hue they wore in the moonlight the night before. It’s eye-opening (no pun intended), seeing her in so many contexts and so many different lightings. It’s an artist's dream.

She’san artist’s dream.

As an artist myself, I base my work on sensations. I believe that experiencing the muse in a diverse array of settings and using multiple senses helps you better depict the art on paper.

I thought I had studied all of Drew with my eyes through sketching her, but now as I’m incorporating multiple senses in learning her and becoming familiar with the way her body feels against mine—between our night at the lake and tonight on the log—I’m starting to realize there’s so much more of her I have yet to learn, and suddenly, she feels so much more multidimensional.

9

Drew

On the last day of the trip, we go for a hike in the

mountains. There’s no signal as expected, so we stay on the recommended path for safety, even though my mom and I are quite experienced hikers.

The trail is windy and very rocky, but we all manage, with Laine and her mom bringing up the caboose. The lines of trees go on for miles, and the dirt is firmly compact—aside from a few stray rocks here and there—from decades of hikers coming up through these trails.

Laine stops in her tracks, pulling me back with her. She takes a small pocket knife out of her pocket and holds it up to a tree slightly off the beaten path. God, this girl can really make art everywhere.

She holds onto the tree with her left hand and starts carving into it with her right, her eyes narrowing as she etches into it. When she finally steps back, I realize she’s carved a small D+L into the scratchy bark. My chest flutters as she watches me look at it.

“There, now we’ll be ingrained here forever.” She smiles softly and looks to me for approval.

“I love it.” I return her a smile even bigger, and we set off again on the trail.

Eventually, we reach the waterfall at the top of the mountain.

“It’s beautiful.” Laine stands at the edge of the wooden hanging platform, her eyes full of admiration. I watch her as she watches the rushing water. I can’t even begin to imagine how much inspiration this view must carry for artists. Not that I would know much about artists’ muses.

The water sprays us softly, and we both step back and try to blink it out of our eyes. As Laine flutters her eyelashes, droplets sitting so fragile atop them, I’m instantly taken back to the night on the lake when I got to see her eyes up close and her hair messy for once. Only this time, her eyes are only slightly damp, and she’s wearing jeans, a concert tee, and a puffer jacket instead of a matching bra and underwear set.

We look at each other for a beat, then burst out laughing. My damp hair falls over my shoulders as I’m bent over, cackling. I’m not sure what exactly is so funny, but the laughter comes out strong on both of our ends. Once we catch our breaths, her widened face turns soft.

“Hey, I think I saw a little fairy house along the trail. Want to gocheck it out?” Laine asks excitedly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands.

“You girls can go ahead. We’re enjoying the view up here, but we’ll follow shortly after you.” Marissa nods in the direction of the path we came from.

Laine takes my hand and guides me down the trail again, careful not to trip on the steps leading up to the hanging platform. We make our way down the mountain, our steps in sync.

As we make it down the windy trail, a scruffy man who looks to be in his fifties walks up towards us, clutching an empty pill bottle in his left hand. I grab Laine’s wrist and pull her closer to my side, linking my arm through hers.

“Heya girlies,” the man sneers, following us as we ignore him. “Pretty day, ain’t it?”

I offer a dismissive, exaggerated smile, hoping he gets the hint to back off.

“What are yin' doin’ out here? Pretty girls out on a pretty day…” His words slur, and he spits as he speaks. He continues to follow us, now picking up speed. Hurriedly, we match his pace and then some, trying to get further ahead of him to the gift shop around civilization.

“Ya know, I was good with pretty young girls back in the day. Grabbed ‘em by the you knows what and played ‘em like the fiddle.” A spine-chilling grin plasters across his face. “Unfortunately one of thems parents snitched on me and got my ass thrown in prison. I got out, though. Ialwaysgets out.”

Laine freezes. I glance at her hurriedly, gently pulling her arm.