Only Between Us by Mila Ferrera Page B

noticed Claudia and her friends, how they look at me. My jaw tenses as I remember where I’m supposed to be right now.
      “How’s your painting coming?” Romy asks.
    I should be relieved that she changed the subject, but for some reason, thinking of my painting only reminds me of the way Claudia looked at it. “I’m struggling with it.”
    “The whole thing looked like a struggle,” she says, pretty much summing up my entire life. “That was why I liked it.”
    “You’re in a very small minority.” I force a chuckle. “I don’t have a style people want to look at. One of my professors told me that last May, right before I graduated.”
    Her mouth drops open. “What a terrible thing to say! Besides … I wanted to look at it. I thought it was honest and brave, and it made me uncomfortable, and maybe that’s good for people sometimes. It means they’re still capable of reacting to something. It means they’re not numb.” She bows her head. “It’s not good to be numb,” she murmurs, almost to herself, and then she looks up again, her words coming out in a rush. “And you paint things that make people feel. They might feel bad or sad or disgusted, but that’s better than apathy. Not every artist can get a visceral reaction out of people.”
    I stare at her in awe, knowing I shouldn’t take her words too seriously; it would hurt too much if she didn’t mean them. My heart is beating like a jackhammer. I could go a few different ways with this, but only one path is safe. I plaster on my best casual smile. “If only you owned one of the galleries downtown, all my problems would be solved,” I say. Breezy-easy. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s keeping things from going too deep.
    Romy’s so still, so somber. Like she’s looking right into my mind, right past all my bullshit. The joking smile slides off my face, too heavy to hold in place.
    “I’m sorry it’s been such a struggle for you,” she says quietly. “I think you’re really talented.”
    “You look cold,” I blurt. Her teeth are starting to chatter. I’d be a selfish asshole if I didn’t say something, right? I’m not avoiding this conversation—I’m merely pointing out the obvious. I want to unzip my jacket and invite her inside. My fingers play with the tab on my chest.
    Romy watches my nervous movements as I stare at her throat, the slope of her neck. “I don’t mind,” she says. “I like it out here.”
    Am I imagining that she’s leaning a little closer? The thought sends a scorching wave of heat through my body. My arm tilts off the edge of the bench, touching her back. If she shows the slightest sign of discomfort, I’m backing off. Regardless of what she said, there are some situations where being uncomfortable is not a good thing at all.
    But she scoots in, seeking me out. It’s like a fucking miracle. My fingers are almost steady as I trace the edge of her hair along her forehead. She closes her eyes when my fingertips skim along her face. Her hair is so short, but I like it, because I can see the line of her jaw and the smooth plane of her brow. I should say something to her, about how I think she’s beautiful, about how I don’t know her but want to, but not a single word makes it past the torrent of sensation. Her lips look so soft, and the longer I stare at them, the harder I get. She smells incredible, a warm, subtle, clean kind of scent, so faint that she has to be close to pick it up. And I want her close. Closer than this.
    I shouldn’t want her this much.
    I can’t want her this much.
    I’m supposed to be somewhere else right now.
    Five thousand dollars, whispers a voice in my head. You’re going to give up five thousand dollars for a chance to touch this girl? Three months of rent. Groceries. A chunk of Katie’s last hospital bill. Katie’s new prescription. I can’t afford to be selfish right now.
    I shoot to my feet as reality crashes in on all sides. “I have to go,” I say,