Page 17 of True Blue

"Of course,” I nod eagerly.

Teddy just stares at me for a while, checking to see if I mean it. I hold his steady gaze. I don’t tell him that I’ve practically been dying to see them. Asking felt too personal. I want to see the landscapes he talks about, the shading he said he stayed up late watching artists on YouTube to perfect.

Secretly, I have this dream of watching old Bob Ross The Joy of Painting episodes with him and listening to him describe the different techniques.

Teddy hesitates before he quietly murmurs, "Okay."

He guides us outside to his big truck in the parking lot. The café we’re at is popular with my coworkers, only a block down the road from the hospital.

Today, Teddy met me outside after my shift—much to the amusement of Phoebe on her smoke break—and we both walked down here to grab dinner for our fourteenth not-date.

Though I've been secretly counting them all as dates. Teddy has slipped past being a friend for me and nose-dived into full-blown feelings.

In the backseat of his truck, he reaches into a blue duffel bag, and with shaky hands, he pulls out a sketchbook. He flips through it before finding the page and moving to stand next to me.

"So, this is that lake outside my condo I was talking about,” he says, holding out the book for me to take.

I suck in a short breath.

It's beautiful.

Like a black-and-white photograph of a lake and lush greenery in the background. I hover my fingers over it, knowing I can't touch it because it will smear the charcoal and ruin the shading he did so perfectly. But I almost don't believe it's real.

"It's not finished," he says, quickly, misreading my silence. "It was just my third draft. My first two were even worse, if you can believe. I'm not a professional⁠—"

"Teddy," I say, my voice soft, but it cuts right through his nervous rambling. "This is beautiful."

He blinks. "...really?"

"Are you kidding?” I gape. “This looks like a photograph. I knew you were talented, but holy shit. You're amazing!"

Teddy looks like he’s fighting a smile, before he quietly asks, "You're being serious?"

I send him a dry look. “I’m not the type to stroke someone’s ego. You are an artist, Teddy.”

I smile, before flipping to the next page to see what else he's drawn.

Teddy blanches.

"Wait, Indie⁠—"

I freeze.

Because I'm staring at myself.

Well, it's my profile, mid-laugh.

My hair is pulled back with a claw clip, and I'm dressed in my scrubs. It has to be drawn from memory, because it's the same side Teddy always sits on when he sits with Ellie at her chemo appointments—to my left.

The attention to detail is incredible. He got the little moles—benign, thank you very much—I have on my neck and the bump I have in the center of my nose down perfectly.

He could have only drawn this if he had been looking at me for a while, intentionally making sure to pay attention to the little details.

Oh...

My gaze drifts up to Teddy. The skin above his beard is bright red, his eyes are wide, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he wants to explain but doesn't know how to start.

"I was... practicing portraits, and they always say to draw what you know..." Teddy shifts on his feet awkwardly, "I'm sorry if it's creepy or any⁠—"