I blinked at him, crashing back to reality. I met his stunning green eyes. His gaze held mine. My heart stuttered. All I could get out was a breathless, "oh." Internally, I screamed at myself. There was no way I'd turned into one of those pathetic girls from books that melt as soon as they meet *the one.* I just barely managed not to grimace. Between gritted teeth, I mumbled, "Evelyn." His eyes lit up with genuine curiosity. "Do you know this place?" His question was deliberate. The words were chosen carefully. That observation helped me remember to be wary. "Yes." There. Short and simple. Keep it short and simple, Evelyn. You got this. The awkward silence stretched for a few long minutes that felt closer to hours. "What are you doing here?" I couldn't stop the question from blurting out. But I needed to know why he didn't leave when he first saw me. I felt the sudden urge to smack myself. Why hadn't I just asked that outright? But nonetheless, the boy seemed to understand. "I was exploring. I thought this place was beautiful. Apparently, I'm not the first to discover it." He grinned broadly at me. "Are those yours?" He gestured to a pile of canvases to the side of the clearing and a bucket full of paint supplies covered with a tarp. Then he gestured to the painting I had in progress in the middle of the small clearing. I'd chosen that place to paint because it had the best lighting to paint in, and because the view of the water was stunning from anywhere in the clearing. I gasped and rushed over to my painting. I'd forgotten to put it under the tarp this morning on my rush to catch the bus, forgetting it was supposed to rain. Or rather, hadn't checked the weather at all. Stupid, stupid Evelyn. As I examined it closer, I noted a few smudges along the rim of the painting, but it would be fine if I painted over it. Or it would if the canvas wasn't drenched. By now, it had stopped raining. The water on the canvas was beginning to dry, but the damage was inevitable. I looked back to the boy, exasperated. "Yes. Why do you care?" "It's truly beautiful art. It's like I'm looking at the real thing." He sounded impressed, but his brow puckered, betraying his tone. "What." I snapped at him. He frowned at the painting. "Have you ever thought of painting something different? I've seen the other ones under the tarp and they're all paintings of the same thing." I scowled. "No. Why would I?" I felt a flicker of anger rise from my impatience. I stamped it down. I would not lose my cool over this boy. I would not allow myself to care. "Doesn't it get boring? Doing the same thing over and over?" I thought about that for a moment. "No." I answered honestly. Painting was my hobby, my dream. It was a part of me. No matter what I painted, I was happy as long as I was painting. I once told my mom that I wanted to be an artist. She told me I needed a real job to earn money. Said it was just a phase and that I'd grow out of it. That was the thing. I hadn't. Mom hated my hobby, said it wasn't useful, said it wouldn't pay the bills. So I just started doing it in secret. Did whatever I could to gather enough money to buy supplies. I brought all my things here when my sister trashed all my supplies that she'd found. No doubt she did it to prove a point. I don't really remember that much anymore as that happened at least a year ago. There was another stretch of awkward silence before I got fed up. Ignore him. Just pretend he's not there. How hard can that be?
