Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I should be drawing the view right now, but I'm not.
It's not for lack of inspiration. In any other circumstance, I'd be completely captivated by the beauty of it all — the slow-flowing creek, the wildflowers slightly overgrown on the bank, the canopy of vibrantly colored leaves swaying softly in the warm late-summer air, blending beautifully into the warmth of the orange sherbet skyline. I should be drawing the way the leaves sitting on the treetop look like they're glowing against the sunset, but somehow, my inspiration is solely coming from the man lying on the other side of the blanket. He's sprawled out, relaxed, and completely at ease as he leans back on his elbow and reads from the thick paperback in his hand.
The sunset paints him in the warmest hues of yellows, oranges, and reds, making his lightly tanned skin glow incandescently. It's a bright contrast to the dark gray eyes that flick up to me every few minutes as if to check that I'm still here with him, and it's mesmerizing, nearly intoxicating to see because it's the same exact color that I've always imagined his aura to be. The same exact color of his energy: warm, all-encompassing — golden.
I keep my eyes trained on the sketchbook in my lap, attempting not to be too conspicuous when I look up to study him every now and then. Yet, when I focus on the dark purple and blue bruise spreading from the crease of his right eye to the middle of his cheek, I can't help but get lost in how — in a sort of poetic way — it looks beautiful against his skin.
I saw the bruise the second I stepped up to the curb at my apartment complex, but by the uncomfortable look in his eye as he slid his helmet over my head, I knew he didn't want to talk about it. Somehow, Micah Costa has been battered and bruised more times than I can seem to count since I met him a few weeks ago. When he looks up at me now and catches me lost in thought as I admire him, his lips tilt up into a teasing grin. I look back down to my sketchbook quickly, willing away the heat that's already spreading through my cheeks and chest at the realization that I've been caught staring, but when I look back up to the horizon to make it look like that's what I'm sketching, I can still feel his eyes on me.
I look back down at my drawing and delicately shade in the final touches of the bruise on his cheek, brushing my thumb across it gently to soften it even more. When I pull my hand away to examine it, I study my favorite parts — the focused set of his brows, the soft tension of his muscle in the hand holding up the heavy book, the rough texture of his fingers, the tattoos climbing up his exposed arms, the windswept hair that he absently runs a hand through whenever he's too lost in the book to realize what he's doing.
"What are you drawing over there, Josie?"
I don't have to look up from the sketchbook to know that his smirk is turning decidedly more haughty than before, and when he leans forward a little, I lean back at the same time to keep my sketchbook out of his reach.
Drawing Micah Costa is one thing. Letting Micah Costa know that I'm drawing him is something else entirely. His ego would probably combust.
"Just the sunset," I lie with a noncommittal shrug, looking back up at the horizon for added effect, scrunching my eyes slightly as if to examine it in depth.
