Page 6 of Hunting Little Hope
Hope paused just inside the doorway.
She didn’t freeze, exactly. She seemed to be assessing the situation instead. I watched as she took in the Littles already seated, some chatting, some absorbed in their supplies and activity.
I stepped slightly to the side instead of behind her.
“This way,” I said quietly, indicating an open table near a large window.
Two Littles sat there already, neither directly connected with the other. A red-haired girl was tapping her brush nervously against the table. The other Little sat twisting a bracelet around her wrist.
Hope took the seat I pulled out for her, murmuring a soft thanks that sounded automatic. I sat beside her rather than across. Near enough to make my intention clear, but not close enough to crowd her and make her feel uncomfortable. I was hopelessly attracted to the woman, but I didn’t want to scare her off before we could get anywhere.
Not to mention this session was for Littles after all, and not really meant for her to have to interact with a Caregiver.
Introductions were brief. Names exchanged. Small smiles. The kind of cautious friendliness that came from strangers who were all out of their element.
Gavin explained the project loosely. His voice carried through the room, and I could see how even the most inattentive Little paid closer attention to him when he spoke. It had a bit to do with his presence, but I think it was mostly because he was famous. Not just for his art, but for the amazing coloring books he created for Littles.
And then it was time to start.
Hope stared at the blank paper in front of her as if it had personally offended her.
I hid a smile as I watched her expression morph from affront to determination.
She picked up her brush, holding it as if she would use it to battle foes rather than create art. Then she leaned in too close, brows knitting as she focused.
“Breathe,” I murmured to her, barely audible. “It’s not a test to fail.”
She shot me a look that was half-annoyed, half-relieved.
“I know,” she said. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”
“There’s nothing to mess up, sweetheart,” I replied. “It’s only paint. You can do whatever you want, and however it turns out, it will be as it was meant to be.”
That seemed to relax her enough for her to let go.
Gavin’s instructions had been sparse but clear.
Paint what you were feeling.
And it seemed like Hope was feelingcolorful.Her page quickly filled with bold splashes of color in careful, sweeping strokes.
That was when it happened.
The blue paint bled into the yellow.
“No,” she said under her breath, the word almost an accusation of sorts.
She tried to fix it. Dabbed at the edges, but it only made it worse. Her jaw tightened, and I watched as she took a deep breath. The air around her changed.
She wasn’t giving off anger, exactly. It was more frustration, edged with something else. Something less controlled. Hope’s foot bounced once beneath the table. Her fingers curled tight around the brush, and I had a fleeting thought that she might snap it in half before she spoke up.
“I’ve ruined it,” she muttered, her tone completely dejected and hitting me straight in the heart.
Oh, my poor baby.
I leaned closer, keeping my voice calm, my fingers itching to stroke down her back or give her a tickle to brighten her up.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said. “Look at me.”
