Late to the Party - Kelly Quindlen Page 0,62

a sea-green shade that made her eyes pop.

I laughed and let go of her. “Not an artiste. Just an amateur.”

“Psh,” she said, handing me an iced coffee she’d brought from the restaurant. “You make art, and it’s beautiful. Try and tell me that doesn’t count.”

We went around to the backyard, where Lydia pointed to a small tree house nestled between the trees. It looked hand built, with mismatched planks and faded, peeling paint on the sides. There was no ladder, but there was a path of crooked two-by-fours scaling up the trunk to the entrance.

“You said to pick a place that makes me feel like myself,” Lydia said, glancing sideways at me. She seemed almost self-conscious, like maybe this wasn’t what I’d meant.

I grinned. “This’ll be perfect.”

She climbed up the ladder first, and I followed a beat behind, trying not to stare at the freckles on her thighs. My canvas workbag brushed against my side, and the moment I got to the top, she pulled it off my shoulder.

“What do you think?” she asked, gesturing around the closed interior.

It was a tight fit, obviously meant for little kids. We stood close together, crouching slightly, our heads practically grazing the roof.

“Definitely an intimate setting,” I said without thinking.

She laughed and stretched her foot behind her, almost like a nervous tic. “Do you need anything else? I’m gonna fix my hair and change into something that doesn’t smell like grease.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “Even though you like that smell.”

“Shut up,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “Go make yourself look presentable.”

“Are you saying I don’t look presentable now?”

I laughed as she scaled down the trunk. Within a minute I’d gotten myself set up, a beautiful blank page and my vibrant set of watercolors in front of me. Now I just had to get in the right headspace.

“Okay,” Lydia said, huffing as she reappeared at the hole in the tree house floor, “which shirt do you like better?” She held out two options.

I squinted at them. “Which one do you wear when you wanna feel … um…”

“Hot?” she laughed.

A faint blush tinged my cheeks. “I was gonna say … like the you that you wanna be every day.”

She poked her tongue out, examining them. “I guess this one.” She smoothed her hand over a simple turquoise tank top.

“Great. Let’s do it.”

There was a pause as she hovered awkwardly, and at first I wasn’t sure why. Then I realized she needed to change into the shirt.

“Oh,” I said, turning my head away. “Yeah, um … yeah.”

“Thanks,” she said with a loud, fast laugh.

I kept my head tilted down, acutely aware of her tugging the shirt off in my peripheral vision. What did it mean that I had offered to look away, and that she’d expected me to? I mean, this was happening after we’d skinny-dipped together. It was broad daylight, sure, but still—this didn’t seem like a standard interchange between two friends. I couldn’t imagine Lydia and Natalie turning away from each other for something as simple as a shirt change.

“Okay,” she said. I looked up as she was pulling her hair out of the shirt collar. “How’s it look?”

My stomach was swooping and whirling all over the place. The truth was she looked simply and naturally beautiful, but I didn’t know how to tell her that, so I panicked and tried for something low-key instead.

“Dope.”

She raised her eyebrows at me, and I mentally slapped myself.

“I mean, pretty,” I said quickly. “Really pretty.”

She seated herself on the floor across from me, her legs crisscross-applesauce style, her hands splayed back to lean on. There was a pocket of silence where neither one of us spoke as I shifted my paper and studied her, and she watched me carefully in return.

“Shit,” she said finally. “This really is like Titanic.”

“Should we call Natalie to come distract you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But you’ll have to keep me calm somehow.”

“You’ll have to keep me calm.”

“Okay,” she laughed. “Let me think about it.”

We faded into silence again, and for a while I was able to focus on painting. It was a strange feeling, being so acutely aware of her body and yet feeling detached enough to lose myself in the painting at the same time.

“Can I look at my phone?” Lydia asked, her voice quiet and breathy like she didn’t want to disturb me. “I have an idea.”

“For a second. I’m about to start on your eyes.”

It felt like a naked, intimate thing to say. I smiled at