Page 12 of Out of Bounds

“We’re at time for today,” the professor said. “If you haven’t finished, work on your sketch throughout the week, and put it in my mailbox before our next class.”

Students got up, flipped their sketchbooks closed, and left. Cliff sighed and shoved his sketchbook into his backpack. He jolted back when he caught Brennan’s eyes.

“You’re taking an art class?” Brennan asked Cliff once he entered the hallway.

Cliff hugged his backpack strap tight on his shoulder. The baseball ringer T he was wearing showed off the muscles in his arms. Not like Brennan should be looking at them. The last thing he needed to do was to creep on Alex’s younger brother and risk losing the only person close to him.

“I am. Don’t judge.” Cliff looked away. He seemed a little tense.

Brennan didn’t mean to embarrass the guy. Maybe because they hadn’t seen each other in so long, that comfort level would have to be rebuilt.

“I think it’s awesome.”

“We have an arts distribution requirement.”

“And you decided to go with art instead of some blowoff theater class. I’m impressed. I think you’ll be a great artist.”

“Really? Thanks.” Cliff’s whole face lifted, and it was like watching the sun rise. “I mean, I’m just taking the class for the requirement, but I think it’d be a good skill to have.”

Leave it to Cliff to be practical about art.

“How was your first class? You seemed to be concentrating really hard on your sketch.”

Shit. Did that sound like I was watching him?

“We each picked an object, and we had to practice drawing it from different perspectives. I got a coffee mug. I didn’t finish, but I’m going to work on it this week.”

“Can I see?”

“Uh, sure. It’s not, y’know, professional-level.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Cliff unzipped his backpack and handed over his sketchbook.

He was right. It was not professional-level. On the page were a series of rudimentary, two-dimensional cylinders with jagged half-circle lines popping out of them. They were shapes, not sketches, barely above the craft of a doodle, but Brennan had watched Cliff focus so hard on them. It broke his heart a little.

Cliff’s lips slightly parted, waiting for an answer.

“They show promise. I can see the hard work you put in.”

“Translation: I suck.”

“No. It’s all about practice. You didn’t walk onto the basketball court and shoot a three-pointer on your first try.”

“Did you start out like this?”

“Totally.”

“So maybe there’s a chance I can be good.”

Paul liked to say that people either had talent or they didn’t, and no amount of practice could change that. But in that moment, Brennan chose to believe otherwise. Cliff’s optimism warmed his heart and sparked a feeling of hope in his chest that’d gone missing.

“Why don’t I help you?”

“How?” Cliff slipped the book into his backpack.

“Let’s meet up this week. I can work with you on improving your sketches, give you some one-on-one help.”