Hrida
The next day, Hrida checked her hair for must have been the millionth time. No matter how hard she tried, she couldnβt get it to behave. She shook it out of the messy bun and flopped on the couch.
Ever since Derrick came to check on her the morning after the monster attack, they had started to spend more time together. Usually, they visited somewhere interesting or sat in their groupβs favorite coffee shop and talked.
Nothing too serious, Hrida reassured herself. This time, they were meeting at Derrickβs place to paint for an afternoon. Hrida wasnβt quite sure what to expect. After the third wardrobe change of the morning, she stood in front of the mirror.
Sheβd thrown on her favorite pair of leggings and a plain white tank top. After a moment, she reached one hand up and tousled her hair.
Good enough.
She slid her feet into her sneakers and headed out the door, wondering if this was even a good idea.
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Hrida picked her way down the street, stopping to check her reflection in a shop window.
I should have worn makeup.
The thought hounded her as she climbed the stairs, nipping at her heels the whole length of the hallway until she stopped outside his door.
The whole thing felt like a dream. Hrida watched herself reach out and knock, then wait patiently in the middle of the hallway until Derrick answered the-
Oh, help.
Hrida couldnβt help but smile at the sight of him. He wore a marigold yellow sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Paint-splattered jeans completed the look. The sound of his heartbeat thundered in her ears. A strange expression flickered across his face, too fast for her to process.
βHello.β He smiled back at her. βPlease come in.β
Hrida kicked off her shoes at the door, her eyes immediately drawn to the rest of the room.
Like most of their homes, Derrickβs apartment was minimally furnished. The space felt like an art gallery, each piece chosen carefully. Her gaze traveled to the walls, and she felt her jaw drop.
Watercolor paintings of different sizes hung everywhere. A step ladder leaned against the living room wall as if Derrick had climbed down to answer the door.
Hrida couldnβt help herself; she walked across the room and sat on the floor in front of the paintings, trying to drink it all in. After a moment, she finally remembered how to speak.
βWow. Derrick, did you paint these?β
He came to sit next to her, keeping a respectful distance between them.
βDβyou like them?β
βLike them?! These are beautiful. Why havenβt you ever said anything?β
βYou never asked.β When Hrida turned and glared at him, his smile widened into a grin. He got up and wandered into the kitchen.
βYou said you wanted to paint, right?β
Hrida rolled her eyes and started to stand up, but before she could move, he was back, balancing a pile of art supplies in his arms.
βScoot.β He nudged her out of the way with one foot, then spread a giant piece of cloth on the living room floor. βThere. Now you wonβt get paint on my rug.β
βWhy would I-β
βHush.β He placed a canvas, brushes, and a well-worn tin of paints in front of her before wandering off again.
βWhere on earth did you get a canvas from?β
βMade it.β His voice floated around the corner.
βNo, you didnβt.β
βDid too.β
He came back with a speaker in one hand and his device in the other. After scrolling through it for a moment, he smiled and poked at the screen. The intro of an old song Hrida didnβt recognize drifted into the air.
βI think you'll like this one.β Derrick smiled at her, then started setting his supplies out in front of him. Hrida watched him for a moment, wondering. Despite everything she thought she knew about him, she still had a lot to figure out.
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