Within the Lines

27.

Atticus and I sat at the dinner table with Chiara's famed beef bourguignon casserole steaming in front of us.

I never had any issues eating, no matter what was going on. Actually, I never had any issues eating anything in general which was both a blessing (when confronted with dinner at a friend's home and the parents are terrible cooks) and a curse (on most other occasions). But at least I could enjoy Chiara's cooking tonight.

Across the table, Atticus poked at the meat on his plate, barely taking a bite while I'd already hovered up all the food on my plate.

Just as I wanted to open my mouth to ask Atticus if his stomach was doing okay, the front door opened and I heard Chiara's chipper voice and the rumbling of Dad's lower voice from the hallway. A second later, Chiara burst through the door.

I figured she and Dad had forgotten something, and because Chiara was still smiling, I felt it was okay to poke fun at their early arrival.

"Hi! It's Monday already? That was quick."

Chiara laughed. "I forgot to bring my ID. At least I realised before we tried to pass security and we were early for our flight." She turned to Dad. "Paul, why don't you quickly eat some of the casserole since we won't have time to grab dinner on the way now."

Dad nodded, and much to my surprise, he didn't look annoyed. I knew they'd left ridiculously early for their flight today because of him. One holiday with Mom and us missing our expensive flight to Greece because we were slightly late had left him forever insistent on waiting near the airport. Sometimes even spending the night at the airport to make sure we'd make it for early morning flights.

He would've freaked out on me if I'd forgotten my ID, but Chiara, with her beautiful smile and soothing presence, seemed to get a pass.

Dad fetched a plate and cutlery and took a seat next to me at the dinner table. He scooped up a sizeable portion of the casserole while Chiara turned to Atticus with a frown.

"Is your stomach bothering you?" she asked, noticing he wasn't touching his food while my plate was already empty.

"A little," Atticus murmured. "Maybe a cold. Don't worry."

The pout on Chiara's lips showed me she did worry, but she wouldn't pursue it further with him now.

"Oh, alright," she said, darting a glance at me, too. "I'll change both your sheets and pillowcases just in case."

"You don't have to, I can do it myself," I politely tried to decline, but Chiara was already in the hallway.

I heard her go up the stairs, and I already felt bad. Changing my sheets wouldn't be an easy feat now, given that I'd sprawled paper and pencils all over my bed and—

My blood ran cold. Oh, shit. The painting. The painting prominently stalled out, right in the middle of my room.

Without another word, I jumped up from my seat and ran after Chiara up the stairs. She'd already made it to the attic.

"Chiara!" I called out hastily. "I'll do it myself!"

It was already too late. I'd left my door open when I followed Atticus downstairs and Chiara was standing in the opening. She stepped inside.

"Kade!" her voice rang out from my room. "What is this new painting? You didn't tell us you also did portraits!"

"Oh shit," I muttered, ascending the last few steps.

I had exactly five seconds to come up with a decent explanation of why I'd drawn her son, and in particular why he wasn't wearing a shirt and it probably showed all over the painting that I was in love with him.

No, scratch that. I had zero seconds. Chiara was already in my room, looking at it.

I laughed in the most unnatural way I'd ever done in my life while I walked after Chiara into my room.

"Oh, yeah, I made that today. I was... inspired by a, uh, movie," I tried to lie while I cursed all the hours I'd spent in my room perfecting my craft. If I hadn't, maybe this painting wouldn't have been so damn realistic and obviously Atticus even if I'd been making it from memory.

Chiara tilted her head to the side and leaned a little closer. "It's beautiful. He looks a lot like Atticus. Did he pose for you after the movie? Without a shirt?"

Chiara pointed at the naked chest I'd drawn before turning to me with inquisitive eyes.

I opened and closed my mouth and shook my head. "No, no! Of course not. Atticus didn't pose for me at all. I was just usin' my imagination—" That didn't sound good either. "—I mean, not my imagination, just, uh... a reference," Stop talking, Kade.

I shut my mouth, while Chiara blinked, utterly confused at my nervous response.

Another pair of footsteps came hurrying up the stairs. Atticus appeared in my door opening next with red cheeks, but otherwise keeping his calm.

Chiara turned to her son, who promptly resembled a deer in the headlights under his mother's gaze. Atticus had gotten better at pretending there was nothing going on and lying about what we were doing together. I'd been proud of him for learning, but today, the skills I'd taught him backfired with flair.

"I posed for a portrait this afternoon," Atticus said, probably thinking he was helping me.

Granted, he would've been helping me by covering if I hadn't just adamantly denied to Chiara that Atticus had anything to do with this painting.

An eerie silence followed Atticus' words. I plucked at my shirt nervously, while Atticus seemed to realise his mistake when Chiara's gaze shot from him to me, trying to make sense of what was going on.

"Are you boys...?" Chiara finally started, first pointing at me, then at Atticus without finishing her sentence.

My mouth was open, but no sound came out, aside from a small, sad squeak. The cat was out of the bag.

Atticus' skin was now ashen grey with worry, the colour quickly draining from his face. The terrible notion of Atticus getting another panic attack right here flashed through my mind. I placed my hand on Atticus' upper arms and squeezed.

"It'll be alright, okay?" I tried. "It's just Chiara and Dad. Not your football team, not the school. They don't know."

Atticus didn't say anything. He yanked his arm free and without another word he stepped away and ran down the stairs, fleeing the attic.

"Atticus!" Chiara, who must've also felt this going south rapidly, called after her son.

She followed him down, while I stood in my room with my face buried in my hands, wondering what on earth I was supposed to do. What were Chiara and Paul going to do to Atticus? Were they pissed?

My eyes fell on the painting. The stupid painting I should've never made. This was my fault for being so obvious about my feelings in my work.

I couldn't let Atticus face them alone, no matter what. After a few more deep breaths, I walked to my door. I cast one last glance on the painting, then ran down the stairs after Atticus and Chiara.