Daydream (Maple Hills, #3)(51)
Chapter Sixteen HALLE
WHEN HENRY ASKED IF I wanted to grab lunch with him after class, it didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t feel cool enough walking through the art building.
The same way Grayson stole all the athletic genes, Mom saved all the artistic genes for Maisie. Sure, I can string a sentence together—sometimes—and read a five-hundred-page romantasy book in a day, but as I take in the creations around me, it doesn’t quite feel the same.
Following the directions Henry gave me, I find the sculpture studio easily, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m slightly disappointed to find him already sitting there with his bag ready to go. He looks up from his cell phone as I approach, smiling in a way that makes me believe he’s truly happy to see me.
“I was hoping you were still with your professor so I could find your work,” I say, pouting playfully as he stands, throwing his bag over his shoulder.
He puts his arm across my shoulder in the super friendly way we are with each other. That super friendly way that doesn’t make me question my entire existence one bit. “You’re sixty seconds too late, Cap. I just finished.”
He’s using his arm to guide me toward the exit. “Are you really not going to let me look? I’m mad that you won’t show me your work.”
“Aw,” he says, but there’s nothing sympathetic about his tone. “You’re going to have a really tough time being mad forever, huh?”
I’m still being guided away like the puppet I am when it comes to this man’s hands. “I’ve never wanted to see something so bad in my life.”
“I draw for you all the time.”
“You draw on me all the time. Or draw me all the time. It isn’t the same—I already know what I look like.”
He sighs, but again, there’s nothing about his tone or demeanor that makes me think he’s not finding this really fun. “Art is personal to me. I don’t show anyone voluntarily, so it isn’t you. But if you want to fight about it, I don’t see you offering to let me read your book.”
Damn it. He’s smiling so big because he knows he’s got me right where he wants me. “That’s because it’s less book and more chaotic ramblings of a woman who daydreams too much and spends her time finding the perfect playlist when she should be writing. Anyway, don’t distract me when we’re talking about you.”
“But I love distracting you.” Henry holds the door to the hallway open for me, and walking through it feels like defeat. I do it anyway, but only because I’m considering the potential implications of me breaking into the sculpture studio later. “Stop scheming, Halle.”
“I’m not!”
“You are. You get pouty when you’re plotting. You do it when you’re working on your book. Where do you want to go for lunch?” he asks, pressing the button for the elevator.
“I’m not talking to you until you agree to tell me what you’re working on.”
“You underestimate how much I like the quiet.” My mouth opens to argue back, but I’ve got nothing. Pressing the button for the ground floor, Henry pushes my mouth closed with his knuckle. “My project is to re-create a popular sculpture in my own style using influences from a different art period. My piece is a reimagined Renaissance sculpture, using influences from Harlem Renaissance artists like Augusta Savage. My version is much smaller than the original and I’m using clay. Happy now?”
“If your goal was to make me want to see it even more, you won. Is that all the detail I’m getting? Not even which sculpture you’re reimagining?”
“Not even. I don’t trust you not to go looking for it. And I always win, Halle.” The elevator doors open and he ushers me out, wise, since I really want to go back upstairs. “Now what do you want for lunch?”
The idea of Henry creating something so special and me never getting to see it makes me sad, but I understand not wanting people to see something you’ve created. He’s waiting for my answer, and all I can think of is him tirelessly working to make something beautiful.
“Something I can use my hands on. You’ve inspired me.”
“I have a suggestion, but it will need both hands.” He holds the door to the courtyard open and I duck under his arm. Looking back at him over my shoulder, I watch as the door closes behind him. His expression slips into something slightly scandalized, but mainly amused. I love how happy he is after time in the studio versus a classroom. “Burgers, Halle. I know that look; get your mind out of the gutter. Let’s go to Blaise’s.”
“My mind wasn’t in the gutter.” It so was, and the butterflies in my stomach agree. “Fine, let’s go. But you can’t judge me if it doesn’t fit in my mouth.”
For the first time in the two months we’ve been friends, I’ve caught him off guard. The look on his face is… enjoyable.
“Touché.”
* * *
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT BLAISE’S earlier, it was closed for maintenance, so we went to a different place close to school.
Fifteen minutes into a debate with Aurora about the book we were analyzing for our class, my phone started buzzing with messages from Henry about him feeling sick. The messages continued throughout the afternoon with increasing levels of self-pity until he finished at hockey practice, went home for his overnight bag, and turned up on my doorstep.