Page 104 of Paint Our Song

He cleans himself up in the bathroom, then runs the towel under water. When he goes back out, Calvin has an arm over his eyes and his mouth curled into a frown. The bed dips when Miles sits beside him, and Calvin peers at him, seeming embarrassed, as Miles wipes him with the towel.

Miles throws the towel in the hamper and then rolls on his stomach, smiling wide at Calvin. He looks comfortable like this, one knee bent and completely naked, though it’s going to get pretty chilly, so Miles pulls a blanket over the both of them.

He trails a finger down the vines on his arm. “Just so you know… there’s nobody else for me, either.”

Calvin cracks a smile, blushing.

“Obviously,” Miles adds.

He doesn’t say anything, only nods and closes his eyes, but Miles knows they understand each other perfectly.

***

When Miles wakes up the next morning, Calvin’s already gone. There’s a note on his nightstand that says, “Didn’t want to wake you. See you tonight.” Then there’s a funny-looking doodle of what he can only assume is a golden retriever. It looks like a blob with mismatched floppy ears.

Miles wheezes. Calvin is good at a lot of things, and drawing isn’t one of them.

He glances at the time.

It says ten a.m.Fuck.He had slept in and forgotten to set an alarm. He’s supposed to be well on his way to the gallery now to meet up with his manager. Blearily, he fishes around for his phone. It’s ringing, and he knows it’s Andy.

When he picks up, Andy asks, “Where are you?”

Miles scrambles and almost falls off the bed. “I’m on my way.”

He takes a quick shower, puts on clothes that are somewhat presentable, and then grabs the only painting he’s been able to make in the last week.

When he finally gets to the gallery, Andy stares at him with the most exasperated look ever. It kind of reminds him of Calvin—which isn’t surprising, because everything reminds him of Calvin.

He should unpack that, maybe.

At this time of day, the gallery’s not so crowded. The only other person around is a young intern who’s typing away on a laptop. On one wall of the gallery is Miles’s works. There are two framed watercolor paintings that haven’t been sold yet, and his wall looks sparse compared to the other artists.

“Why are you always late?” Andy asks. “You artists are all the same; your minds are always over the place.”

He grins sheepishly, handing him the painting—a serene-looking lake in subdued tones. “Sorry.”

Andy shrugs. The painting’s backed with cardboard and wrappedwith clear plastic, and he holds it away from him, studying it. His eyes scan over it, and a twinge of nervousness courses through him.

“It’s… interesting,” Andy says, finally.

“Just say it’s bad.”

It’s a cry for help, is what it is. This was all Miles was able to come up with throughout the week. After sketches and sketches that he didn’t particularly like, he sucked it up and did this—drew the lake because that’s what he could see from the roof garden, and then went home and painted it.

Strangely, his week that lacked all inspiration coincided with Calvin not being in Ridgeford. He should have painted while Calvin was still around. He did, actually—and they’re all of Calvin. There’s no way he could submit that to the gallery.

“It’s not bad.” He shakes his head. “It’s interesting. It’s definitely… different from your usual work. It doesn’t have the usual vibrant colors and the warmth and coziness. Are you trying something new?”

“No.”

“Do you like it?”

Miles hesitates. “… Not exactly, no, but it’s all I came up with.”

“Let’s see the response we get. Keep painting. You’re talented, you’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks,” Miles mutters. In other words, he hates it. “Interesting” and “let’s see the response we get” is not exactly the type of feedback Miles would want, but he gets it—this is definitely not his best work.