Leave Me Breathless

‘Hi,’ I say, standing up from my stool.

She swings around, a paintbrush in her hand, and smiles. ‘Hi.’

‘I’m Hannah.’

‘Alexandra,’ she practically groans. ‘But most people call me Alex, except my mother’s family who insists on using my full name. My dad calls me Cabbage sometimes.’ She shrugs. ‘I think he does it to annoy my mum. She hates it.’

I wander over to her. ‘Why would he want to annoy your mum?’

‘They’re not together.’ She slides the brush back into the pot and starts combing the lengths of her hair with her fingers as she wanders to the shelves stacked with paints. ‘They were incompatible. And I was a beautiful mistake.’

I laugh under my breath at her indifference. I guess it’s a good thing. ‘Were you looking for something in particular?’

‘Nah.’ She takes a couple of steps to the side and bends forward, looking closely at one of my paintings. ‘Did you do this?’

‘I did.’

‘It’s really good.’ She looks back and smiles.

‘Thanks.’

‘I love your head scarf.’

I reach up and feel, reminding myself of which one I’m wearing today. Blue with white hearts. ‘Thanks. Do you like painting?’

She shrugs. ‘Mum doesn’t like me doing stuff that gets me messy and ruins my clothes. But Dad loves me getting messy. We get messy all the time.’

I go over and pick up a blank canvas, propping it up on a spare easel. ‘Then maybe you could paint something for your dad without getting messy so you don’t upset your mum.’ I pluck a brush from a pot and a palette of paints from the shelf, then turn toward her and hold them out.

Her eyes light up. ‘Cool!’ She darts over and claims her tools. ‘What should I paint?’

‘Whatever your heart desires.’ I grab my own canvas and a brush, swirling it in a pot of water. ‘Or just go with it.’ I dunk my brush in red paint and flick it at the canvas. ‘Sometimes it just . . . happens.’

On a grin, Alex imitates me and starts flicking paint, chuckling as she does. ‘Oh, look, that looks like a heart.’

I take a peek, nodding. ‘I love accidental art. Some of my best pieces were accidents.’ I pull over two stools and motion for her to sit, and we both settle in, flicking and humming, seeing what accidents happen on our canvases.

‘Oh crap,’ she curses out of the blue, and I look over to see her wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘I got paint on Dad’s cap.’

I place my brush down and reach for her cap, pulling it off. ‘It’ll clean up,’ I assure her, catching sight of her dress. ‘Oh God, look at you. How’d you get so messy so quickly?’

Looking down her front, she shrugs. ‘Dad says it’s a talent.’

‘Well, you’re sure good at it.’ I chuckle. ‘I thought I was the messiest person alive.’ I motion down my front where paint is splattered, old and new. ‘You look like me.’

She points at my head. ‘I don’t have a head scarf.’

I smile at her hint and pull it from my head, tying it in her hair, making the bow on top big. ‘Perfect,’ I declare.

She reaches up and feels. ‘Mum will say it’s untidy.’

Wait. Speaking of her mum, she’s been sitting in my shop for twenty minutes. ‘Where’s your mum and dad?’

A cough sounds from behind me, making me swing around. And I nearly fall arse-first from my stool. ‘Ryan!’ I yelp, finding him leaning comfortably against the doorframe. I drop to my feet, clumsily, of course, and start wiping at my cheeks, where I know I’ll be sporting various blobs of paint.

‘Hi.’ His crooked smile holds my eyes for too long, and my whole being becomes more flustered. Alight. Alive. I remember our almost kiss. I remember how good it felt when he was touching me. I remember . . . every tiny detail of my visit to his home this morning.

‘Found a new friend?’ he asks, pushing his weight off the door and striding casually into my shop. His big body, dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, looks out of place surrounded by all my colourful clutter.

Tearing my eyes away from him, I look over my shoulder to Alex, who has turned to face Ryan, too. She’s grinning. Why’s she grinning? I look back to Ryan. He’s grinning as well. ‘Love the head scarf.’ He motions to Alex’s head, and she reaches up to tweak the bow.

‘Hannah gave it to me.’ Gave it to her? I did?

‘I was worried,’ Ryan says gruffly. ‘And look at the state of you.’

I find myself glancing down my front, to all the paint there, my forehead furrowed with lines of confusion.

‘Chill out, Dad,’ Alex chimes, completely unaffected by the wrath in Ryan’s tone. ‘I was with Hannah. She likes painting.’