The Artist | #3✓

Chapter 17

"Follow me," Toby said when I awkwardly paused at the center of his living room. I nodded, following him into the hallway. I'd followed him to his apartment after the school day. I was here to see his studio. I felt a bit out of place as we walked through the passage. Toby stopped at one of the doors, making to open it before walking into the room. I followed him inside, squinting a bit from the harsh light that flooded the room when Toby flipped the light switch beside the door. The place was lit up, and everything in the room stood out. Though, there wasn't much to see. The place was organized in that plain rigid fashion Toby liked.

I looked around the room, noting that all the canvases were turned to their back, except for the one holding Toby's current painting that was displayed on the stand at the center of the room.

"You can flip them and have a look," Toby said, making me turn to find him heading to one of the large canvas' leaning against the wall.

"I've gotten rid of the ones I have to," he said, probably referring to the paintings by and of Brendan. I didn't say anything in reply. I looked away from him, hugging myself as I looked around the small room. The brown painted walls were bare, and Toby's art supplies seemed to be tucked away in small boxes at a corner. I eventually made to flip one of the canvas' resting against the wall. The painting on it was of a fruit arrangement - a typical and ordinary composition. Considering how fast Toby painted, he probably finished it in about an hour on a random day.

I continued to flip canvas', looking at each painting with curious eyes. I could tell the ones that were speed paintings that were not done with much thought put into them - they were probably done to help him relieve stress. I could also spot the ones that had been serious projects. They were more complex and better detailed.

"What do you think so far?" I heard Toby ask from the other end of the room. I looked up, turning to find him by the only window in the room. He was looking out into the street below with an odd expression plastered on his face.

"I can see you," I answered, turning back to the colorful gouache painting of a circus that I'd been inspecting.

"What?" he asked, turning to face me with a small confused frown. I shrugged, not knowing how to explain myself. I could go on and on about how well-done Toby's paintings were, and I could go on and one about how I admired his technique and approach, but what caught me off guard was how I could feel him in each painting—connect with him and his feelings as he'd painted each one on some level—or maybe it was just me overthinking things as usual. It was only normal that I'd like to believe I understood the person I was in love with.

"I can feel you in them, if that makes sense," I finally said. Toby laughed, smiling as he turned away from me to focus on the scenery outside the window again.

"You're odd," he muttered. I smiled a bit, resting the painting I'd been inspecting back against the wall before walking over to him. The studio's flooring was done in wood, and my footsteps echoed through the room until I stopped right behind him. I hugged him from behind, resting my head against his back. We stayed like that, with Toby looking out the window and myself resting on him with closed eyes.

"When do you think you'll start heading home?" he asked, making me open my eyes. I let my eyes wander around the room until I made them focus on Toby's face that was turned a little to the side to look at me.

"Probably in the next three hours," I mumbled into the red plaid shirt he was wearing. It wasn't like my parents would question my whereabouts per se. They were always absorbed in their own activates to notice much in general. I don't think anyone would wonder where I was until maybe eight in the evening, and it was just four PM at the moment by my guess.