Free 3 Sides to a Circle by Jolene Perry, Janna Watts Page B

the walls and make polite comments, but right now just absorbing the paintings seems so much safer, so I do. I’m guessing that he won’t mind if I take my time. It is the reason I asked to come back here.
    Reds and oranges are s pread together in what seems like a big mess, but as I look closer, I can see a person behind them. An eye, a nose, half a face on the four-foot tall canvas. In the thinnest lines separating this person’s face from the shocking colors, he’s captured something so intense that I don’t have words. I’m not sure what he used to put the paint on the canvas, but even the idea that this emotion came from him, and that I can see the strokes of paint, lays him more bare than I’ve probably ever felt. Now I just hope people recognize what a genius he is when they see what he’s created.
    I glance back at Sawyer with wide eyes.
    His body is rigid, and his hands are in his pockets as he watches, making me wonder how long I’ve been standing here staring. His jacket is off, and his trendy plaid shirt is rolled to the elbows giving him a sort of funky vibe that I don’t even think he tries for.
    I continue to take in each painting, and I’ve been standing long enough that my feet hurt. I can’t believe this night is still happening. I can’t believe I asked to come here and that he brought me and that I don’t feel terrified to be alone with him. And the longer I look at his paintings, I start to realize that these people posed for him, just like I do in front of the camera, but not one of these feels impersonal. My perception of being the object begins to shift.
    “These are…” I’m not completely positive how to continue. “Really, really incredible.”
    It’s the first time I’ve seen confidence fade from his face. I finally let my coat slide off and I set it on a chair, and my eyes focus on each one again. On the mess of shelves with buckets of paint and small bottles of paint and brushes.
    I tilt my head to the side and sigh as I see a blue-green and a couple outlined with foreheads together. The comfort, love , and passion, even in blues and greens, squeeze my chest and sort of rocket Sawyer into maybe the most amazing person I’ve ever met—even though I know so little about him. It’s that I feel like I know him deeper than all the checklist stuff of where he grew up and how many siblings he has and what he eats for breakfast, because I’m looking at his artwork and I’m getting it. For real.
    “No one actually looks. Or very few people do,” he says quietly.
    “How can they not?” A s soon as the words are out, and he smiles, I realize it’s the perfect compliment for him.
    I’m not sucking at this. Finally . And a little part of me wishes Libby could see because I know she’d be proud.
    “Let me show you my favorite.” He reaches out his hand and I take it, even though the room isn’t all that large and I probably don’t need him to lead me anywhere.
    Just like when we brush against each other, that delightful warm, electric feeling runs through my hand and up my arm, and it’s almost as if I’m really liking someone for the first time ever, rather than being with someone because I’m lonely or because it’s convenient , which has been my experience until now. Again, I chose this. To come here. And then the more unbelievable thing—he seems to want me here too.
    We walk next to his bed, nav y blue sheets in a tangled mess and a tan comforter in a heap at the bottom. He snatches the comforter up over the sheets and I start to wonder what he wants from me. If this was all just something to get me here…
    “What…?” I stop , ready to back away.
    “No.” He points to the ceiling. “Up there, but to really see it, you have to be here.” He jumps into his bed and scoots against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
    “So. This is how you get girls in your bed?” I tease as I take a step closer, but there’s some truth to my question as well. He could just