It had been ten years since the end of school, ten years since classmates all went their separate ways, ten years since he'd seen Chloe.
Ten years too short.
It was a fine, lovely day when Nathanael ran out of paint supplies. He had been meaning to get them before—he always kept extra supplies stocked in some far corner of his studio apartment—but for some reason, he didn't have any yellow paint.
He considered going without it, but the masterpiece in his head refused to let it go.
Once he'd spread all the boxes in his apartment out on the floor and dug through each one—the ones where it should have been and the ones where it should not have been—he finally gave up on the yellow paint.
It's not in here, Nath. Just go get some more. It's not even that far to the Art Shoppe.
But he was oddly reluctant to go.
He didn't know whether it was just the fact that he happened to forget to restock or if it was something else—some premonition of sorts.
Nathanael wasn't very superstitious, he just always had his head in the clouds.
He finally picked himself off the floor, grabbing his jacket and keys, then locking the door behind him as he left.
He didn't like this. He didn't know why, but he didn't like this.
When he reached his favorite art supply store, the Art Shoppe, just a block from his apartment, he ran into fear itself—literally.
Chloe stood face to face with him, her sweater soaked in the coffee she had been holding seconds before, a look of pure anger on her face. When she looked up at him, his heart froze. This was why he hadn't wanted to come. Somehow he'd known he'd end up regretting leaving his apartment.
"Nathanael," she ground out through clenched teeth. "I guess I'm not surprised it's you. You always were incompetent."
"I'm so sorry, Chloe," he said with no more oomph than he felt. "I really didn't mean to. I should have been watching where I was going."
In truth, he had been watching very painfully, taking in every detail of the world around him, waiting for something dreaded to pop up, wrap itself around his ankles, and pull him down into the earth. It was only when he'd decided to stop freaking out over nothing that he'd closed his eyes briefly to take a deep breath and try to tame the wild beating of his heart.
"You think?" she snorted. She shed the dripping sweater, fingering the spots of coffee that had soaked through onto her blouse underneath. "You know," she mused, an unsatisfied look on her face. "I miss moments like this more than anything."
He knew it was sarcastic, but he didn't bother repaying the favor. "I can pay for any damage done," Nathanael offered, though he knew he had no money and no desire to repair her sweater.
"Don't bother," she said, waving a hand in the air. "I didn't like it all that much. And now I'm remembering why I didn't like you all that much."
He hadn't liked her either, but what could he say to that? He wasn't brave enough to lie and he wasn't bold enough for the truth. He'd have to settle for something else.
"If you're sure I can't fix it…?"
"You? Fix this?" She snorted again. "Go ahead, but I don't want it back." She tossed the sweater at him then stepped around him. "You have no idea how happy I am to say goodbye to you." But he couldn't tell if she was talking to him or the sweater. It didn't matter; she was gone, disappearing around the corner at the end of the block.
Weird. Whatever that was.
He draped the sweater over his arm—what was he supposed to do with it?—and pulled the shop's door open, hearing the clink as the bell above the door shook. The shop owner smiled as he entered, then gave him a strange look at the yellow women's sweater he had on his arm. He smiled sheepishly in return.
He bought the yellow paint—two tubes, just in case—then left the Art Shoppe and started for home, sliding Chloe's sweater into the tote bag with the paint.
When he reached his apartment building, Nathanael climbed the stairs two at a time, ready to be back in a safe place with no chance of running into Chloe. He unlocked the door, letting the bag drop to the floor at his side, and pulled off his jacket.
Once he'd readied his easel, he reached for the tote bag. The smell of Chloe's bitter black coffee wafted through the air as he set her sweater aside. She likes her coffee like she likes her attitude, he thought when the paint smelled like her too. As black as can be.
He set the paint near his easel, idly wondering if there was some way to remove her smell from it or if she'd always be there with him as he painted. He reached into a drawer to find the other colors he'd need and instead found a bottle of bright yellow shining up at him.
Where were you thirty minutes ago?
He picked out the colors he'd need and returned to his easel. He'd use his new yellow paint for this one. Because he wasn't going to paint the masterpiece he'd had in his head an hour ago. He was going to paint Chloe.
Because now all those years seemed too long.