Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals, #1)(62)

“I’m good.” I shrug, forcing a smile at both of them. “I mean, I’m sorry for the other night. When I got drunk.”

The late-morning sun streams in through the window behind me, warming my back. Caleb successfully snuck out through the window, and I made an appearance for movie night. It was nice. No talking. Just sword fights and British accents.

When I woke up, I was filled with inexplicable trepidation. I could barely move.

My body hurt. I discovered a trail of hickies and bruises on my neck, down my chest. I pressed my thumb into one, and pain hit deep. But it wasn’t bad. It was the kind of pain that made me want to keep pushing on it.

And then I remembered the chat we’re supposed to have.

So here we are, food in front of us that I’m too nervous to eat.

My mouth waters at the smell of bacon, but my flipping stomach prevents me from reaching out and taking a slice.

“We understand that these things happen,” Lenora says. “We’re just hoping that you’ll make good decisions as you get older. Going forward.”

I nod.

“Angela mentioned that your dad is in jail,” Robert says. “He’s actually quite close—”

“No.” I want to crawl out of my skin at the thought of my dad in an orange jumpsuit.

“Are you angry with him?” Robert asks. “I can’t imagine how you must feel, and we just want to understand—”

“I can’t do this right now,” I whisper. “Did Angela bring this up?”

“We know your mother is—”

—my head snaps back—

“I’m doing okay, aren’t I? Going to school, making friends. My grades are good.” Ish. “You’re letting me be a normal teen with… not a lot of worries, really.” I manage to smile at them. “Thank you for that.”

Somehow this turned into a heart-to-heart.

“We love having you here,” Lenora says.

I meet her gaze. “I love being here.”

She sniffles. “Okay, enough of this. As long as you’re content, and we’re doing a good job… let’s eat.”

“And you’re officially ungrounded,” Robert adds.

I beam.

“How’s your painting coming along?” he asks.

I start loading my plate. My anxiety has eased, and suddenly I’m ravenous. They’ve prepared a feast of breakfast foods.

And then I register his question and slowly set down my fork. “Oh, um…”

The answer? Not great.

Not only have I pushed it so far to the bottom of my to-do list that I’d forgotten about it, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to come out awful.

“Do you need help?”

I squint at him. “Are you allowed to help me? Being the teacher and all?”

Lenora laughs. “Probably not, but that won’t stop him.”

“I can give feedback,” he allows. “And maybe point you in the right direction. Just like I would do for every other student who asked for help.”

“I do need to work on it,” I allow. “I’ve been preoccupied.”

He nods. “I’ve noticed.”

Guilt crawls over me. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean—”

He waves. “Stop. You’re allowed. But if you want to work on it, I’m around today.”

Once we’re done eating, I run upstairs and change into clothes I don’t mind getting paint on. I need to figure out exactly how I’m going to capture Caleb. He’s a riddle I haven’t found the answer to yet, always shifting pieces and parts. A mirage.

I cart down my canvas, my box of paints, and brushes under my arm. Robert has already laid out newspaper on the dining room table, along with a small easel.

He comes in as I’m setting up.

“Do you know why I picked oil paints for this assignment?” he asks.

I shrug, staring at the vague outline of Caleb. “Because it’s a difficult medium, and you wanted to challenge us?”

He nudges me, shaking his head. “Because it’s forgiving.”

I tilt my head. We’ve been working with a bunch of different paints—watercolor, acrylic, oil. I haven’t picked a favorite.

“You make a mistake? Go over it. Erase it. Hell, do a painting and then repaint it the next day. You can’t do that with watercolors.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve barely touched the surface here, Margo,” he says. “You’ve painted an interestingly mute background… and that’s it.”

That’s all I had the nerve to do last time Caleb and I sat down together.

Robert leans his hip on the table, meeting my eyes. “You don’t need him in front of you to paint him. In fact, I think you’d capture his essence better when you’re not looking at him.”

He leaves me alone while I stare at the canvas. Sooner or later, I’ll have to start.

I take my time putting the paints on my palette, preparing my brushes, lining up the charcoal and turpentine. I mix a few different colors together, trying to find the right shade to match Caleb’s skin.

But nothing is perfect, so I just…

Put a stroke on the page.

So what if it isn’t beautiful? He’s not beautiful—not on the inside. He’s broken, just like me. It comes out in the way the colors clash on the page. I take Robert’s advice and redo the background. The blues and purples I had originally painted, trying to go for a nice look, don’t work.