chapter 42 - bestest friend

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Talia:

"I don't think I'm doing this right."

I look up from my paint to find Grayson mixing his own paints into a very lovely shade of...brown—literally the exact color of shit. My brows furrow when I remember that I tasked him with painting the basketball for our artwork. Orange. I'm pretty sure a basketball is famously orange.

It's been three weeks since everything occurred.

One week following the funeral was tough, for both Grayson and myself. Our time spent together consisted of small conversations that appeared periodically throughout long expanses of silence. Sometimes, I would get him to smile just for a second, but then his face turned serious and distant. In those moments, we would do what Grayson and I vowed—to take comfort and care of the other when was required. I made sure to wrap him tight in my arms until I could feel him relax.

There was one time when we tried to watch a movie, which resulted in him falling asleep in my lap. Exhaustion overtook him from everything his body and mind was putting him through, so I let him sleep. And sleep. And sleep. He woke up sixteen hours later, sprawled out on my bed on his stomach like a starfish. Grayson was very confused by what happened, but by the way I saw him get out of bed—shoulders back, head held high—I knew he was getting better.

And then he actually did get better.

Now, exactly eight days until graduation, we are scrambling to finish our semester-long art project. We have completed two of the art pieces, but two more must be done—one from Grayson's favorite place, and one from mine.

We decided on connecting each piece of art work with the other, all centered around hands, oddly enough. The first one shows two hands—one male, one female—holding up the brochure to the National Gallery of Art. The drawing consists of only straight lines to make up the hands and paper, giving the work a modern style. We painted this one with acrylic paint to heighten the sharpness.

The one we work on now is from Grayson's favorite place: the basketball court by his house. This time, it's two hands holding a basketball, also to be painted with acrylic. The hands are shaded and drawn with charcoal and pencil in order to make the basketball pop. Surprisingly, that was Grayson's idea.

The third doesn't have much to do with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The only indication is the fake, elaborate frame I painted along the border of the watercolor canvas. Within the frame is a recreation of Michelangelo's Creation of Adam painting on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. It's only a partial recreation, because just the hands are visible, reaching out to each other.

For the fourth and final painting, we allowed the hands to finally touch.

When Grayson and I were in art class one day, I reminded him that we still needed to visit his second favorite place to complete the project. He informed me we had already been there. The playground of our old elementary school is one of Grayson's favorite places, simply because it is where he met me. I kissed him the next time we were alone. A lot. Him saying those kinds of things makes my heart go all weird.

After that, we decided on painting two hands entwined together, placed over a background of carefully arranged daisies. "I love you," is written across our hands; and just like that, all four pieces of art became the story of us.

Various bottles of paint are scattered on the kitchen table of my house.

I walk over next to him and lean over his palette of colors. My long hair falls foreword to act at as curtain to my face. Before I can even get a hand up to push it back, Grayson's nimble fingers brush the hair behind my ear, revealing myself to him. He smiles.

I mumble a thank you and point to the mixture of brown paint. "What colors did you use?"

"I looked at the color wheel like you told me," he says, a slight grumbling in his voice, as if he is a child being reprimanded. "Red and yellow."

Two blots of red and yellow sit on the sides of the shit-brown paint, but I also notice a small blot of blue with yellow paint dragged through it. If I had to guess, I would say that Grayson accident picked up the blue paint in his paintbrush, and then proceeded to mix his attempt at orange. Well, at least now he knows how to make brown out of the primary colors.

"I think you mixed in blue by accident," I tell him, pointing to the blue blob.

"Oh," is all he says, which causes me to laugh. He pokes my hip and gives me his most threatening glare. It's more of a smile. "Don't laugh at me, daisy."

"I'm sorry," I apologize right as another laugh spills out. "It's just that...Why did you pour the blue out if you're painting the basketball?"

"Now you're making fun of me," he says, poking my hip once more. Grayson surprises me by hooking that finger through my jean's belt loop and pulling me closer to him. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I thought you love me."

He whispers that last part, and as he does, butterflies erupt in my stomach. It's always those damn butterflies.

"I do love you." I press a quick kiss to his cheek for emphasis. "I just think you still need some more art lessons."

He smirks and pulls me down to perch on his thigh. "So you'd be willing to teach me," he speaks into my ear. His lips press at the skin below, sending goosebumps along my arms. "Will these be private lessons? Because I think I'll be needing something intimate for me to actually learn."

Butterflies. Again. Thousands, this time. Maybe even millions!

A small squeak from my mouth is what results from all of the butterflies. And, quite honestly, a very strong blush. I take a breath to recompose myself. "If I give any kind of art lesson to you, they would be solely educational."

I think I picked the wrong thing to say, because the lust in his eyes grows. They're practically shimmering at this point.

"Oh, I'm sure I will learn a lot after one session."

"Stop being so suggestive with your words," I demand, pointing a finger in his face.

"I'm only discussing possible art lessons with you." He shrugs. "Besides, I don't even know if you'll be able to squeeze me into your very tight schedule."

"Grayson!" I lightly slap his arm and push myself off of his lap. His laughs are heard the entire time, and I smile because of it. "Art lessons are definitely off the table now."

I wish I picked different words.

Grayson stands and grasps onto my waist with both hands, drags me back to him, and lifts me onto the kitchen table—thankfully on the one spots not crowded by art supplies. He brushes his lips across my cheekbone and kisses along my jaw. "I think art lessons are back on the table."

Great, now I can't even think straight. I run my fingers through his hair to encourage him for more kisses. He does just that. His lips rub and suck lightly on my neck; not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough friction to cause warmth to pool between my legs. The horny version of Grayson is one of my favorites, tied with Grumpy and Lovely Grayson. With any of his personalities, I'm down bad.

"Let's go upstairs," he says into my neck. He then kisses that spot. "You seem a little stressed, baby. Let me help."

That sounds like a good idea. Yeah, I'm definitely interested in whatever methods he has to release the stress in my body. If it weren't for the fact that my sister and Quinn are home.

"We're not alone at my house," I remind him.

The resulting groan from Grayson alerts me that this wasn't the answer he wants. "I'll just kiss your lips the whole time, then no one will hear us. Like this."

He moves his lips to my own and roughly kisses them. Sure enough, it shuts me right up. He's so smart.

Suddenly, there is the sound of the fridge door opening, which is funny considering we're a good ten feet from it.

We slowly turn our heads to the sound. Well, it's actually just me turning. Grayson can't seem to separate his lips from my neck he decided on kissing a moment ago. I shove his head away as Quinn smiles at us from her spot at the fridge.

"Hi," Quinn beams, waving her hand in greeting. She grabs a bag of baby carrots from the fridge drawer and plops it open on the counter. A loud crunch is heard when she bites into the orange stick. "Don't mind me."

"Oh, I think we're going to mind you, Quinn," I state. She bites into another carrot while Grayson mindlessly traces my knee in circles with his finger.

"Sorry," she says sadly. "I just get hungry after se—"

"Stop!" I yelp. "I don't want to know what you were doing with my sister."

Grayson gives my thigh a gentle squeeze and leans into my ear. "See, it wouldn't be so wrong to go do something while others are here."

I roll my eyes, which causes him to laugh. The laughing stops when I hop off of the kitchen table and put myself a good three feet away from him. Horny Grayson just became Grumpy Grayson. It's strange, because both versions are equally needy. Hence why he is currently trying to reach out and pull me back to him. I take another step away, giving him a warning look that tells him his sexual offer is fully off the table. Quite literally, too. He bunches his hand into a fist and then unclenches.

"Wow," Quinn breathes out from the kitchen counter. She excitedly grabs the bag of carrots to clutch close to her chest. "I'm going to go tell Jessie how cute you two are."

With that final statement, my best friend rushes out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.

Thinking I'm distracted, Grayson tries to capture me in his arms again, but I'm too quick, and move away. He frowns. "Why won't you let me hold you?"

"Because," I say, gesturing to the art supplies we've been ignoring for the past five minutes. "We need to finish these art pieces in two days. Get back to work."

"So fucking bossy," he mumbles under his breath. I might have also seen a dramatic eye roll.

I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"I said I love you, daisy."

This time, he actually catches me off guard and circles his arms around me, kissing my cheek. He steps away with a nod of his head and obediently sits back in his chair. Good boy. Grayson holds up his hands and adds, "There, I'm ready to work."

I nod my approval and move to my own seat, positioned at a far enough distance to eliminate further distractions. That, of course, does not stop the small smiles that are passed between the two of us every few minutes. It does not stop the playful kicking of each other's feet under the table. It does not stop much, actually. We're very much infatuated with each other. Love is weird.

***

"Wow, these pieces are amazing, you two," Miss Bradstone praises after examining our four canvases of art. "I love the way you centered on hands for all of them. You both should consider becoming hand models."

"We'll keep that as plan B to our careers," I answer for us. In our time together, we managed to finish all artwork, with plenty of time to spare for other activities. Such as kissing, which happens to be Grayson's favorite pastime, I've learned.

She nods and looks back over the art. "I knew you two were going to do great things when I partnered you."

"We make a good team," Grayson says, nudging me in the waist. An amused gleam lights up his eyes.

The teacher walks away, and I find myself blushing as I stare at what we created together, thinking about everything we have done to bring us to this moment. The moment where we are strong as a team, unified as one, just as the fourth painting depicts.

"Thank you," I say to Grayson.

He arches an eyebrow in question to what I mean.

I hug him around the waist. "Thank you for finally deciding you wanted to get to know me better."

"Thank you for giving me a chance," he replies, kissing the top of my head.

I suppress a giggle as I wave my hand over the paintings. "How do you want to divide the pieces?"

"I thought you could hold onto them for us for the future." He picks up the second canvas—the one with the basketball—and places it back down.

"Yeah, I can hold onto—"

"Lia, darling!"

I lock eyes with Jake at the doorway as he walks in the art room with Rowan in tow. He seems to be on a mission.

"Mr. Edwards and Mr. Killian, why are you interrupting my art class and disrupting my students?" Miss Bradstone asks from the front of the room, her arms crosses over her chest.

"Miss B!" Jake exclaims, throwing his hands up. "I have something very important to ask Lia, and it can not wait another day."

She points at Rowan. "And why are you here?"

Rowan points at Jake. "I have to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"All right, carry on." Miss B turns back around and decides on ignoring their presence.

"You had something to ask?" I question Jake.

Jake throws an arm over my shoulder. Maybe I'll decide on being nice and allow him to keep his arm there. From Grayson's death stare that lasers into Jake's soul, I realize my boyfriend has absolutely zero intention of being nice.

"Get your arm off my girlfriend," he says in a calm voice. That might have been scarier than if he actually said it in a threatening tone.

Jake rolls his eyes, pointing a lazy finger at his friend. "I will not, Graysie-boy."

Graysie-boy crosses his arms. The glare intensifies. "Five...four...three—"

The arm flings off of me in a panic. "All right! Keep your panties smooth, or whatever it is." He claps his hands once and turns to me. "So, Talia. You get to speak at graduation, right?"

I keep forgetting about that. And by forgetting, I mean ignoring. As the valedictorian, I'm required to present a speech to our graduating class. I haven't even written enough to last me one minute, which is four minutes short of what I should have. The only part written is the shitty intro: "Good evening fellow classmates, faculty, and family. We did it. We finally get to graduate!"

I'm deleting it all.

"I was thinking," Jake continues, "that you let me add in some light jokes to your speech, courtesy of moi, your boyfriend's bestest friend."

"Hey," Rowan interrupts. He hits Jake on the arm with a loud slap. "I'm Graysie-boy's bestest friend."

As the two argue who is Grayson's bestest friend, Grayson slides over to pull me in front of him by the waist. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and then whispers, "You're my bestest friend."

I turn around in his arms so I face him, a smile overpowering my face. By Grayson's smiling standards, I would say his smile also overpowers his face, even if it doesn't stretch as wide as mine. I stand up on my toes to kiss him, and he thankfully meets me halfway by leaning down.

"You're my bestest friend," I say back.

When we separate, we remember we're still next to Rowan and Jake. Specifically, we're next to their watchful eyes that now gleam with amusement.

"I think we just lost the bestest friend award to Lia," Rowan says, nudging Jake in the rib.

He crosses his arms in defeat of losing the award, but with smile across his lips. "I had no chance of winning, anyways."

Grayson kisses the top of my head. "Absolutely no chance."

My heart flutters.

"So, the graduation speech," Jake remembers.

I shake my head. "I'm not adding your jokes into my speech."

"Why not?" he whines. "Please, please, please, please, please."

"She already said no," Grayson reiterates.

Jake narrows his eyes at me, seeing if I will budge in any way that will lead to me including one of his jokes. The answer is still no. I may not have much written in my speech, but I do know one of Jake's jokes has no place in it.

"You two are the worst," Jake groans. He releases a huff of breath and storms out of the art room without a goodbye. Rowan follows him out, still on the task of making sure his friend stays out of trouble.

"So, what is your speech going to be about?"

I look up at Grayson and shrug. "I have no idea. I keep procrastinating and it never gets done."

"That's not very valedictorian-like of you," he teases, which results in me poking his side. He pretends he's hurt by my action, and I laugh because of it.

"I just don't know what I want to talk about."

"You should talk all about me, and how great I am." That earns him another poke to his side, this one harder. He feigns the same reaction. "Hey, hey, I'm kidding. Write your speech about something that has helped you through high school, or something like that."

Easy enough, right? Wrong. I hate writing inspirational speeches. There is a reason why English my worst subject, and that is because I'm horrible at forming something that moves people. Something that will make an audience want to go out and do something good or be better. I can write argumentative essays that use logic and reasoning, but nothing like this. My creativity only extends into the physical art world, not the English world.

I must have gotten lost in my own world, because Grayson nudges me lightly. He looks at me with a smile, and I try to return one, despite all of my worrying about this stupid speech.

"You're going to be fine," he reassures. "Worse case scenario, if it's really bad, I'll still give you a standing ovation when you're done."

"Still give me? Does that mean you're planning on cheering no matter what?" I ask. For some reason, I can't imagine him hollering and cheering for me from the crowd. But if he says he is, I'll have to trust him.

"No matter what." He presses a quick kiss to my forehead, and my worries seem a lot less worrisome.

I'm happy he has my back.

And that's when I get my idea for my speech.

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