Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

The only thing I knew to do was apologize.

“I’m sorry,” I said breathlessly.

“For what?” he asked.

“For, um, painting you without your permission. I wanted it to be a surprise to you eventually, but now I’m realizing maybe I should’ve gotten your permission first.”

“Don’t be sorry for something like that,” he said.

“You seem upset.”

“Is this how you see me?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. I looked back down at the painting, his fingers hovering over his eyes. I looked up at his gaze and realized he was locked onto it, and in that very moment, I realized what he was talking about. He was registering the same type of inward pain I was attempting to convey in the picture, and while I patted myself on the back for being able to portray it, I could tell it was bothering him.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The black background. The stoic features. The sadness in my eyes. Is that how you see me?” he asked.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“Well, it’s not a good one, if you’re asking,” he said.

“Why not?”

He picked up the painting, and I turned myself toward his body. He leaned up against the wall and lost himself in it, trying to figure out where I might’ve seen that look on his face. I could tell he was trying to put pieces together. Trying to make sense of what he was looking at. I felt frozen in my place, like a small child hiding from a robber who was walking along the edges of the bed I was tucked under. I felt like I was two seconds away from being exposed. Being forced into a conversation I didn’t know if I could ever have again with anyone, much less him.

I still had nightmares about that night.

“The brushstrokes are light and fluid,” he said.

“You can see that?” I asked.

“Yeah. You can see it in stenciling and shading as well. It captures an emotional truth I thought I was hiding well.”

“Why would you want to hide an emotional truth?” I asked. “It’s your truth, Bryan.”

“Because the truth isn’t always a good and bountiful thing,” he said.

“Why does it have to be good to be worthy of a painting?” I asked.

“Do I seem this sad to you all the time?”

“There is a sadness about your soul, yes. But it’s not constant. It’s there, and I have a feeling it has something to do with your brother, but that isn’t all there is to you, Bryan. I enjoy being around you. I enjoy the time I spend with you. I enjoy talking with you and opening up to you. We have good times together, and that matters as much as the sadness. That matters as much as the darkness.”

“The darkness,” he said.

“We all have it.”

“You don’t.”

“You’d be surprised.”

His eyes panned over to me, and I was concerned I’d said too much. His dark brown eyes hooked heavily onto mine, and his

hand reached out to hand me the painting back. I took it between my fingertips, studying him intently as I turned and sat it back down on the table.

Then, I felt his hands crawl up my back before he began massaging my shoulders.