Page 27 of The Boy Next Door

"Sam, we need to talk."

"Not now," I tell Mom, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table. "I'm going to be late for school."

"College is more impo—"

The door shuts behind me.

I'm already running late. While I felt good about mending the relationship between the brothers last night, I went over there searching for comfort and not intending to play mediator.

And I hesitated about texting my friends.

This isn't a competition, but Clay applied to more art schools than traditional institutions.

.. and his acceptances also started rolling in.

So, I spent the night moping alone. And I overslept.

When I head outside, Hunter's there. In his pajamas.

"Aren't you cold?" I exclaim.

"What? No." He glances down to his bare feet and thin t-shirt. "Or yeah. I'll be okay."

His blue flannel pajama pants are slung low on his hips. Holy—my brain explodes as I'm pretty sure he borrowed the pants from his brother, only sleeping in those tight black boxers peeking out—

"Go inside," I order frantically. "I have school anyway."

"No."

“No? You can’t change the fact that I have school.”

“I’m not going inside.”

"Fine, come on."

We get inside my car. It's still cold, but I crank the heat. The temperature made his nipples poke against his shirt, the sight oddly erotic. Shaking my head, I wonder why he's even awake.

"Dylan woke me up so I could catch you before school."

"Are you guys okay?"

"Yeah, I think so. He was worried about you." Bedhead looks both sexy and adorable on him, and I'd need in-depth study to determine the winner. "Apparently you didn't get into art school?"

"Crap!" Fighting the sudden urge to leap from the vehicle, I rush to explain. "I came over to tell you, I swear, and somehow I filled in your brother. Then I left and couldn't text this news. Swear I didn’t mean to keep you out of the loop."

Hunter's dry laugh is music to my ears. And oddly erotic.

"Enough groveling. I'm not even mad."

"Wha-you aren't?"

"Should I be?"

"No!" I yell, and he smirks. "Why aren't you mad?"

"Sounded like you blurted the news to Dylan." Oh god, did he know why? The topic his brother tried to bring up… "And with me, you couldn't just throw it out there because... my reaction matters?"

"And you're... happy?" I guess, noting the small smile on his face.

"Not about your news," he reassures, grabbing my hand. His skin is cold, but I hold on anyway. "Happy that I matter."

Unlike his hand, his voice is warm, and slightly raspy as he just woke up. And not oddly at all, kinda erotic.

"Hey, if you wanna be an artist," he says, "there's other options."

"Yeah," I mutter, glancing out the window. Surprising, his advice is the same as his brother's. "All schools offer art programs."

Two doors down, Mr. Martinez rushes out in his robe and slippers to pluck his newspaper up and run back inside.

"What? I guess. You applied to other art schools, right? Anyway, what I mean is," he tugs on my hand, forcing my gaze back to him. "Screw them. If you wanna paint, you paint. They can't stop you. Nobody can stop you."

I'm surprised by his ferocity. "Uh, thanks..."

The heater is on full blast, too hot now, so I turn it down.

Sometimes it's difficult to remember that Mrs. French and art institutions don't just provide knowledge but validation.

And maybe the second is what I'm really after.

I'm not sure I can totally stop seeking approval, looking for a sign that says, 'yes, you can devote your life to this extremely unsteady career path. '

But no matter what the future holds, I'll always be an artist. If I keep painting. Nobody can stop me, except for me.

"Worst pep talk ever?" Hunter asks with a lopsided smile.

I smile back. "I think you did okay."

I'm dressed for school and in a beige windbreaker.

He looks so soft in comparison. Hunter Cruse is rarely soft, and the sight is so irresistible I'm seriously tempted to shed a few layers and crawl back into bed with him.

Not even for anything dirty—not right away, at least—to fall asleep in the same bed, cuddling up, keeping each other warm, and letting the day start without us.

~

While truancy tempted me, I eventually get to school. After tutoring a freshman in charcoal drawing, I'm working on my art project. Or more accurately, I'm hesitating.

Crisis of faith I've heard of before. What about crisis of art? Our assignment involves giving a painting that inspires us our own twist using polymer clay. Using clay as paint makes for looser, flowing lines, perfect for watercolors.

Tilting my head, I stare at the canvas of water lilies. I changed the color palette and wonder if the vivid red flowers express... there's a slurping sound.

Mrs. French is there, viewing my painting with me and drinking from a large fast-food cup.

"When I think of water lilies," she offers, "passion isn't the first feeling that comes to mind." Oh no. "But there's a reason you feel differently, isn't there?"

Hunter, a museum trip, how he showed me a different side of him, and now I see that night in shades of red. For affection! Not rage.

"Y-yeah, see—"

"No, don't explain. Use the canvas to tell the story."

"I'm worried it's too much red."

"Passion never stays small for long. This is promising, Sam."

Monet uses three main colors for his water lilies, and I have some pink and white polymer to soften the red. But will she consider toning it down as being too cautious? Should I only use shades of red?

"Thanks." I can't handle her intently viewing my painting while I watch anymore. "I suppose I'm second-guessing myself after RISD rejected me."

She jolts, clearing her throat and coughing when a mouthful of soda goes down the wrong pipe.

"No, wait," she wheezes. "This is hideous! A garish mockery of a classic, what was I thinking?"

"What?"

"I hate everything about this eyesore! Ugh!" She pauses, glancing at me to gauge... whether I believe her? "Let me say it again. Ugh!"

When I keep staring at her, totally dumbfounded, she sighs. "If I'd known an art school rejected you…"

"You would have totally trashed my painting earlier?"

"Call it motivation! I'm stacking the odds against you."

"Why?"

"For maximum stakes!" she claps her hands together, chuckling fondly at the idea. "Do or die time forces you to search your soul and deliver your inner truths. Yes, it's truly time for boldness now."

Mrs. French leaves me to search the depths of my soul, and I stare at my painting, struggling to come up with a solution.

Too much red overpowers the details. Softening the red could provide balance...or be seen as a cop out. Why does this feel like such a monumental decision?

Mrs. French's main criticism of me? Art isn't solely about technique. The feeling matters most.

Mission accomplished. My feelings for Hunter are right there . But a relationship isn't all about passion. My instincts say to blend pink and white in with the red. Even if she calls it too safe.

Shockingly, not only the visual or technical details demand this. It's because Hunter isn't only one thing, one shade, there's the surprising moments he's gentle, sweet, and even vulnerable .

But what my recent rejection from RISD taught me? My instincts aren't always right.

~

I'm still doubting myself and not exactly in the mood for company after school, but I also can't turn Hunter away when he shows up. It’s only when he heads for the stairs that I jump into action and block him.

"Let's go to your room," he suggests, a flirty smile on full display.

"A-are you inviting yourself to my bedroom?"

His eyebrow raises. "Are you saying I'm not welcome?"

"Mom's home," I not-so-skillfully deflect. "Safer for everybody if she stays in her office and we don't give her a reason to emerge."

His eyes still glance behind me to the stairs. "Actually, I'm only hoping to... can I see your art project?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I love your art.”

“You haven’t even seen my work,” I remind.

“Right, yeah. Uh, I will love it. You know I'm a water lily aficionado."

"Oh, it’s still at school." Fortunately. I'm not sure I could survive Hunter viewing a representation of my feelings for him, no matter how innocent this one is.

Grabbing his arm, I lead him to the couch and we sit down. He puts his arm around me, not trying for more since he must see something’s on my mind. “What are you thinking about so hard over there?”

"Just a decision I’m struggling with.” I sigh. “Maybe it’s more than that. My parents and friends still treat me… Am I the only one who still remembers the terrified kid who thought the sky might fall anytime I said the wrong thing, anytime I said anything?"

"I remember."

"Really?" It shouldn't be surprising, but... "I kinda thought you were like a goldfish."

"Tiny and yellow?" His offended face would be amusing at another time.

"No, no memory. Every time I wasn't around, you forgot I existed again."

"Well, you know." He shifts on the couch.

"You were supposed to think that. I'm the cool older brother.

The one Dyl's friends fawn over—the one who doesn't notice the younger, and therefore totally less awesome, kids.

" He knocks his shoulder into mine. "You've come a long way, and everyone sees that. "

“Thanks. I’m not sure everyone agrees with you.”

"You should be proud of your progress," he says.

"Well, the meds—"

"Yeah, I'm sure they help. You still have to do the work yourself."

"Yeah, and I did."

“You did?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It was tough, but I’m proud of what I accomplished.”

"Why do you do that? Put it in the past tense, like all the work is done. 'Oh, I'm brave now,' or 'I was brave once, so I never have to try again.'"

"Uh…"

"Sorry, I don't mean to criticize." He sends me a reassuring look, asking me to hear him out, and I reluctantly agree.

"Getting help, making progress? That's huge. But maybe it's not really a road that comes to an end, you know? Because the second you think that way, you're done. You stop trying to improve."

“Guess I never thought of it that way,” I admit.

He turns to me and smiles. "You never know how high you can reach if you keep going."

Huh. Hunter makes anything seem possible. Maybe having him in my life is a good thing and I’ll learn to be more like him, more fearless, even if it doesn’t come as easily to me.

Once, I could barely talk to the next-door neighbors. Panic attacks zapped the strength out of me for days. I want those days relegated to the past. I hope I overcame the hard part because I don't wanna think about going back there.

Backwards is only one direction though. I could also move forward. Guess it’s time to take a chance.