Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

I’d always hidden it, ever since I was a child.

The study abroad program I’d enrolled in was a ninety-day intensive, complete with five days of being in the classroom from nine-to-noon and an internship at the museum from one-to-four. If I wasn’t studying art, I was attempting to make it. And when that failed, I walked the halls of the Uffizi and marveled at those who had left their permanent mark on the world, praying I could do the same.

The first two weeks had blown by in a blur, mostly consisting of me working on our first real assignment. It was an oil painting, and since I’d worked on mine late into the night last night, I prayed it would be somewhat dry on my easel this morning, ready for the professor’s eyes.

Professor Beneventi was a stern man in his late fifties, with ink-black hair and weathered, tan skin that rarely ever crinkled at the edges of his eyes, due to his lack of ability to smile. Still, his work was impressive, and he had a lifetime of achievement under his belt that made me feel honored to learn from him.

The man had a PhD, which was impressive in and of itself, but I was more moved by the dozens of frescoes, paintings, and sculptures he’d been commissioned to create over the years — the first of which he was hired for when he was just thirteen years old. An expert in traditional Renaissance drawing, painting, and sculpting techniques, his work could be seen all over Florence, of course, but he wasn’t too modest to remind us that he had works displayed in museums and city centers as far away as China and all the way to America.

He was a brilliant old man.

And he was also very difficult to impress.

Our assignment had been to paint our first week in Florence, and I’d sat on the stone wall along the river with the sun on my face and done just that. I let the inspiration flow from the city directly into my heart. It was as strong as the pulse in my neck, that realization that I was here, in the birthplace of the Renaissance, in the city that brought some of the world’s most renowned artists to life.

I worked on my painting every evening after my internship for a week straight, and I knew without having laid eyes on any of the other students’ work that mine was pristine, an alla prima masterpiece with the bright colors of an Italian sunset, and the perfect brushstroke blends to bring the river and bridge above it to life.

I couldn’t wait to show Professor Beneventi.

The classroom was buzzing with conversation when I ducked inside, everyone sitting at their easels and anxiously awaiting the professor. A gentle breeze rolled through the open windows of the room, white curtains flowing in its wake, and that draft was our only relief from the heat that would grow throughout the day. I didn’t realize how dependent I was on air conditioning in Georgia until I came to Florence where an air conditioner was as rare as eggs were for breakfast.

The pastries I’d grown accustomed to.

The sweating, I had not.

I was anxious until the moment I slung my bag off my shoulder next to my barstool and took in the sight of my mostly dried painting that I’d last seen around midnight. The colors were just as bright as I remembered, the brushstrokes impeccable.

I smiled as I took my seat, confidence filling me like helium.

I looked around, making sure everyone was occupied with their own work before I removed my right hand from my pocket. The last piece I’d left for this morning was my signature in the lower right-hand corner, and I always signed with my small hand.

I was born with symbrachydactyly, a rare birth defect where my right hand didn’t fully develop the way my left hand did. I had a fully formed pinky and thumb, but the other three fingers were bubble-like and small, “nubbins,” as my doctors called them.

I didn’t like that my instinct was to hide my hand, but I disliked looks of pity from strangers even more so.

Sure, I had two fully formed fingers where most people had five. And sure, it was a little unsightly, a little odd if you weren’t used to it.

But that hand still helped me do amazing things.

And I was on a mission to prove that I could do anything I wanted to despite it.

I could still remember how difficult it had been to take a brush in that hand the first time, how unbalanced and clumsy I’d been with the strokes. Now, I signed my name in tiny script without a single tremble.

Harley Chambers.

I smiled at the sight of the white paint against the deep blue of the river, and as I did, a tingle spread down my spine.