He's obviously finished practice, wearing a camel Vuitton sweater and jeans. The dark lines trailing out from under the pushed-up sleeves make my thighs clench.
“Didn’t peg you as a Rodin fan.”
“I’ve seen most of his works, but I prefer The Kiss.”
I look up at him, wary. “Because it’s romantic?”
“Because it’s tragic. A noblewoman who fell in love with her husband’s younger brother. In Dante’s Inferno, they were condemned to wander hell for their sins.”
Okay, I’m not at all interested in Clay’s knowledge of art.
I try once more to stretch and reach, but I can’t. I screech in frustration and drop back to my heels.
“What’s wrong?”
“With us?” I’m incredulous.
“No, I mean right now.”
I want to tell him to get out of here, but I’m intimidated by the owner’s demand and frazzled about how best to comply.
I nod toward the wall. “James wants this done today so he can show some board members the progress. I need to finish that part.” I point toward the top corner. “And I already chipped two nails trying, which sucks because Brooke and I only got them done yesterday.”
I hold out my hand as if the broken nails are proof of something broken in me.
Clay looks between me and the wall. “Come here.”
I stiffen.
“If you don’t get down from there"—he nods toward the ladder—"I can’t get up.”
What?
He means…
Oh.
“You can’t,” I say plainly. “You don’t have the right technique.”
“I’m good with my hands.”
Now, I’m remembering the feel of him touching me. What would have happened if I hadn’t gotten up and run out?
I shove the thoughts down.
“You don’t listen,” I contend. “You do things your own way, and if you don’t do them my way, you’ll ruin it.”
“It’s sky. How bad can I fuck that up? And if I do, you paint over it.”
Okay, technically he’s not wrong.
I cut him a look. “I’m surprised you’re admitting it’s possible for you to fuck up.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I fuck up plenty, Nova.”
It’s not an apology, but there’s a hint of humility in the words.
Clay gaze lowers to the airbrush in my hands. “We’ll do this your way. Talk me through it.”
I don’t want him to be part of my art, forever part of this installation that’s mine.
But the other option is not completing this milestone for the owner.
So, I step down carefully, moving to the side and holding out the airbrush. Our fingers brush as he takes it. Clay takes three steps up the ladder, then another two without pausing. He’s already taller than I was.
“Your knee—” I start.
“I can play basketball, I can stand on a ladder.”
He leans toward the corner in question, and my heart leaps into my throat. This was a bad idea. He could still ruin this. Or fall and hurt himself and be useless to the team.
I should find facilities and get their help.
But he’s already sizing up the area to paint.
“Go slow,” I say. “Don’t press, squeeze lightly. The color looks like it’s not coming out at first, but it is.”
Clay’s face scrunches up in concentration, the same way as when he’s analyzing a defense to break down.
The blue mists onto the wall, and my breath catches.
“Move around,” I say quickly. I should have led with that. “Smooth strokes, nothing jerky.”
He does what I say, and the rich color floods the wall. I keep guiding him with my voice.
“That’s not bad,” I admit.
His mouth curves at the corner. “You like telling me what to do.”
“Only when you listen.”
The low sound from his throat could be a muffled chuckle, and damn if it doesn’t make my chest ache.
It’s not as if he cares about me.
He went out of his way to make sure I knew that.
Maybe he didn’t realize how much he hurt me when he broke things off, and now he feels guilty about it.
But as I watch him work, the deliberateness of every stroke, it softens me.
I’m remembering how good it felt to be with him. How I swore I saw him and he saw me. He’s the first person who really believed in me as an artist.
“Stop,” I bark after ten or fifteen minutes of me directing him.
He looks down, quizzical.
I survey the wall in its entirety. “I think that’s it.”
Clay steps down and holds out the airbrush.
We’re standing too close, and I take a stiff step back. “Could you move the ladder?”
He carries it easily a dozen steps away before returning.
I’m scanning the wall with a critical eye when I glance over and spot droplets of blue on his expensive sweater.
My stomach sinks.
I grab his arm without thinking, tugging at the fabric to see if the stain was a trick of the light.
No luck. There’s an aqua mist drying on half his forearm.
“Oh no…”
One time, Brad’s white shirt got a paint stain on it. He was annoyed for weeks, and it probably cost a fraction of what Clay’s wearing.
“Hey.” He lifts my chin with his finger and forces me to look up at the straight nose, dark eyes, and firm lips I’ve traced so often in my dreams. “I don’t give a shit about the sweater.”
Suddenly, I’m thinking of how we laughed at Red Rocks, running across the landscape. The night he held me at his place after the ruined bachelorette party—
My attention jerks back to the wall.
I lift my phone and adjust the filters so the light bathes every inch of the buildings, sky, clouds, and birds.
I snap a picture, inspecting the image with the same intensity.
Is that part of the sky uneven, or is it just the light?
I lift my finger to point at the wall. “Right there. I should probably fix…”
“Nova.” He grabs my hand out of the air, squeezing it in his. “It’s beautiful.”
My stomach flutters. In the moment before I pull away, his fingers feel like a lot of things.
Guilt isn’t one of them.
6
CLAY
The Utah game starts with a bang.
The crowd is into it from tip-off.
Atlas knocks the ball to Jay, who brings it up the court and finds me early.
They’re guarding me close, so I sidestep to shake them and sink a three over the startled second-year guard’s head.
“Fuck yeah!” Rookie grins at me, and I grin back.
That’s how it goes.
Back and forth, fast-paced with lots of buckets. Everyone’s getting theirs tonight, Jay and Miles and even Atlas down low.
I’ve got energy to burn tonight, and it feels good to put it all out there on the court.
Partway through the first quarter, I pass to a cutting Rookie even though I have a clear shot. He dunks it over one defender, and satisfaction slams into me.
I look up, half expecting to see Nova watching, but she's not there. It's only James Parker in the box, looking right at me.