“Or maybe I should paint landscapes

“Or maybe I should paint landscapes.”
“Is that really your style?” He steps a little closer, and I swear, I feel the heat of him radiating toward me in the cool room. His scent is turpentine and soap and smoke, a strange and oddly magnetic combination.
“Not really,” I say quietly. “I guess I don’t have a style.”
“Bullshit,” he says, but his voice is gentle. He snags the stool next to me and sits down, tucking a bit of stray hair behind his ear. I wonder what he looks like without the top half of his hair pulled back, if he ever allows it to fall around his face.
“I take it you majored in art?” I ask, eager to move the topic away from myself.
His smile contains the slightest twist of bitterness. “Much to my family’s chagrin, yes. Not only college, but graduate school as well.”
“Do you like teaching?”
Those eerie wolf-gray eyes meet mine. “Sometimes. I like helping people express themselves.”
“Me, too. Therapy can be the same way.”
He sits back a little. “Maybe so. I like painting better, though. It’s the only therapy I need.”
He sounds the slightest bit defensive, and I think back to what I saw last night, how much pain inhabited his canvas. “And does it always look … like that?”
“Only when it needs to.” He tilts his head. “Are you stalling, Romy?”
Looks like I’m not the only one eager to steer the conversation away from myself. “Stalling to avoid what? Going home? No.” Maybe.
His eyebrow arches. “We have rules. You can’t leave here without getting that brush dirty.”
“Maybe I should pack up for tonight.” I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of this guy.
His fingers dance down the stalk of my brush, and I feel it like he’s stroked my skin. “Want to try something before you give up?”
“Huh?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a lopsided smile. “Trust me for a second?”
I frown. “With what?”
He chuckles. “Come on, Romy. I’ve been through artistic blocks more times than I can count. Let’s see if we can’t get you through yours.”
I look up at his face. There’s a few days-worth of stubble on his cheeks, and there are light circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. I search his gaze to see if this is a sleazy pick-up or mockery and find none of that. “Okay.”
Slowly, he takes the palette and brush from my hands and sets them on the floor next to my easel. Then he straightens up and puts his hands on my shoulders, and I tense up for a moment at the unexpected touch. He stills, but doesn’t let me go. “Face your canvas,” he instructs after a few seconds. “And close your eyes.”
“All right …” I’m fighting my awareness of the weight of his hands on me, of his scent.
“Can you slow down your breathing?”
I bite my lip and hold my breath, wishing he hadn’t noticed how he’s affecting me, though he probably doesn’t realize that’s what’s happening. Or maybe he does—his hands disappear … and I miss them.
“I said slow down, not stop altogether,” he says, his voice trembling with amusement. “Breathe, Romy. There you go.”
The smile in his voice makes me shiver, but I try to focus on drawing air into my lungs, expanding them completely. And then I do it again and again, dwelling in the silent rush as I exhale.
“Now,” he whispers. “What colors do you see?”
I laugh. “My eyes are still closed.”
“I know.”
I press my lips together and concentrate. He’s totally serious, trying to help me, and I shouldn’t waste this opportunity. But—“It’s hard to grasp. I can’t describe it.”
“Try,” he says, and I hear the shuffle of his feet. He’s right behind me, not touching, but I feel him anyway. He’s moved closer. A few more inches and his chest would be against my back.
“Try,” he says again, a little louder.
There’s something in the timbre of his voice that makes me want to do as he says, and for a moment I want to strike out, to rebel. But when he says it a third time, I remind myself that he’s not trying to control me. I will not let Alex make me see the world this way, scared and suspicious of everything and everyone. That would mean he’s still manipulating me, and I won’t let him ruin this for me like he ruined so much else. Caleb is trying to help me. He’s my teacher. “Mostly dark brown …”
“No,” he murmurs. “Really try.”
Somehow, I know what he means. I know what he wants. “Raw umber … mostly, but Prussian blue, too, maybe a bit of yellow ochre …”
“Intensity?” His breath skates across my cheek, and my stomach tightens, but not with fear.
“Dull, I guess. There’s a … a streak of light through it …”
“Romy,” he says, and it’s the gentlest of reprimands. “I think you can do better than that.”
So I try harder, pushing myself into the colors, swimming in them. And as I do, they stop slipping away from me. I gobble up the images, the swirls of rich tones, earth and sun. “Mostly titanium white, but a healthy dose of lemon yellow.”
He hears it in my words, my voice, I’m certain. He almost sounds excited as he asks, “Orange? Black? Warm or cool?”
“Definitely warm,” I whisper, so quiet that I’m not sure he can hear me.