Truth or Dare

I turned off email notifications from DeviantArt, logged out, and told myself I needed to stop following him.

And that worked for about a little over a month. I made some friends, told them some jokes over drinks one night about the bully who missed me, and they laughed with me about it. It helped me get some perspective and break off my attachment to him. And that was great... until Thanksgiving when I had to go home.

I kept worrying I'd run into Red. A weight lifted off my shoulders when I heard he was staying at school for the holiday. Apparently, he and his parents were arguing, and Red was opting to stay at school over Thanksgiving.

One afternoon during my vacation, I was browsing the notebook and stationary section of Target because there was literally nothing else to do out in my boring hometown, when I heard a familiar voice. Jess had found me, and hurried towards me with a grin on her face.

"Oh my god, girl! How is college! Are you, like, totally loving it?"

"Yeah, it's pretty cool," I said. "It's nice to do my own thing."

"Free-dom!" She sang obnoxiously. She held a large blended coffee in one hand and her Gucci purse in the other. "Yeah, it's so great. I'm glad you're having a good time. Tell me about it! Let's catch up!"

So we walked through Target, looking at clothes and shoes and books and hair accessories that we didn't need and didn't really like, and talked about college. I told her about my courses and the weird professors, and the clubs I'd joined, and about how one of my professors was going to let me write a novel for extra credit. She told me about the challenges of getting into grad school, even if you had a good GPA.

"Your teachers have to like you," she shrugged. "And they don't like me because I'm an entitled rich white girl. I have almost perfect grades, but they just don't like me for who I am. It's a pain.

"Red, on the other hand, holy shit. His teachers adore him. And did you hear the news? Oh my god. He switched his major from Business Admin to Art without mom and dad's permission! He's doing some kind of digital and fine arts combo major. It's the first year the school launched that major, so he got some kind of scholarship for it, and mom and dad are pissed to hell."

"Why are they pissed if he got a scholarship?"

"Because, one, art doesn't pay. And two, his art isn't even that good."

I drew my head back in surprise and looked at Jess. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. He draws some really weird shit. I don't get it."

"Jess, his art is awesome. Especially his newer stuff."

She looked at me in surprise, and maybe even a little disgust. "Really? You like my brother's art?"

"Jess," I mumbled as we turned a corner. "We agreed we would never talk about this, remember?"

"Talk about what?"

"Exactly. Thank you."

"No, wait," she said, catching my arm and stopping me in the aisle. "I literally don't know what you mean."

I sighed and felt myself deflate. God this was embarrassing. At least I was mostly if not completely over my crush on Red, even though I did still think he was talented. "That night last year when you asked me about him, remember?"

She shook her head. "When was that?"

"You invited me out to Sharky's to catch up, and you texted me a few hours later. I thought it was weird that you were texting me while you were out partying."

She stared at me with a wrinkled brow and narrowed eyes.

"Never mind, just forget the whole thing."

"Um... Tilly? I didn't have my phone with me that night."

My mouth went dry. "What?"

"My phone fell out of my pocket and I didn't know until I got there. I left it at home. And I... went home with someone. I didn't get it back until the next day."

***

Jess forced me to hand over my cell phone and she read and re-read the texts from last spring, shaking her head and pursing her lips. I leaned against the barista counter of Starbucks, waiting on my hot chocolate while she paced and read and glared.

Finally my drink was ready and I practically dragged my phone back from her. "I can't believe this! I can't believe he would do something-- you know what, actually, I do. It is so totally a thing they would do! They were always so mean to you! Tilly, I swear, next time I see him, I'm going to--"

"No, Jess," I said, putting the phone back in my pocket. "Don't say anything to him, please. I don't even know if it was him on the other end. It may have been my brother, they were all over there that night hanging out. I remember because I finally had some peace and quiet."

But I knew that wasn't true, because the others would have teased me about my crush on Red. Red probably felt bad about teasing me and stopped, and the others followed suit.

"I'm over him, it doesn't matter, and he's not even around. I go to school ten hours away from him. At least he was nice to me for the last month we saw each other regularly. At least once he realized it, he backed off, you know?"

"That literally does not make it better!"

"I know. But nothing will." We left the store and spoke a little more, and then went our separate ways.

Back home, I retreated to my room, much to my parent's dismay.

I meant what I said. Nothing would make it better. Nothing he could do or say, no drawings, would make up for the hurt and embarrassment I felt. The worst part was I couldn't figure out why I was hurt. He was just a stupid boy who I liked, and he found out.

I groaned and reluctantly did the one thing I knew I needed to do to process my feelings.

Writing was the way I understood the world. While some people needed to talk things out, I needed to write them out. Once I got them on my laptop, I could figure out what they meant, understood how I felt, and come to terms with things I didn't want to face. Sure enough, after a few hours of typing away, I finally figured out the reasons why I was so damn frustrated about this whole situation.

I liked Red, and he didn't like me at all. And once he'd figured it out, he'd essentially rejected me by avoiding me. That was all fine, and easy to understand. But now he was drawing me, and I didn't know why. Because he felt guilty? Because he regretted it? And why was he doing it in such a secret way, posting on DeviantArt where I knew none of his family or friends followed him? Was he embarrassed of me?

My writing wasn't helping me get anywhere but frustrated... so I decided to take it into my own hands and do something with it. If I couldn't fix and control my own life, at least I could control my story.

Three years later

Red

"So, your muse still speaking to you?" Dr. Addison asked, looking over my shoulder.

I was studying the shading on her face, watching the elegant curve of her chin, the shine in her eye, the way her hair danced in the air behind her. It was a painting of an old photograph I'd found, but I was unsatisfied with the result for a reason I couldn't identify.

"Yeah," I mumbled. "There's just something I can't quite get right."

"Who is this girl? You've been drawing her since Freshman year."

Who was this girl? That's what I was trying to find out.

Ever since I started drawing Tilly, I realized I didn't really know her. I knew things about her, like what she looked like, the sound of her voice, and the irritated look in her eye when she got picked on... but I didn't know her. I felt like I was trying to understand her through my art, and unfortunately, I wasn't making any headway. It was resulting in artwork that felt incomplete, or lacking something.

It was Senior year, and I needed to submit five of my best pieces to the Fine and Performing Arts Center for the weekend exhibit next month. All the Senior's work would be displayed, and a lot of headhunters, musicians, gallery owners, and art collectors liked to peruse the work to add to their collection or find an artist to commission a piece of work or album cover. I'd selected three pieces I wanted to enter, but I wasn't sure about the other two. And even though I should have been trying to expand my portfolio and create something new, I just couldn't stop going back to Tilly.

I felt like I was missing something. Like I hadn't quite exhausted the source.

Freshman year of college, she'd posted a selfie that startled me. I see you, the caption said. All black and white, lying on the green grass with her eyes closed. And from that point on, the obsession got worse. The idea of being blind but seeing, or seeing something that wasn't there, of knowing something without looking at it, and of something right there, but not being able to understand it... all those concepts formulated some of the work in my first semester that got me my scholarship to join the art program.

But I still couldn't see her. And that's what irritated me.

My coping mechanism for something I didn't understand was to draw it. So I'd been drawing Tilly ever since.

"Maybe you need a new muse," Dr. Addison said. "Or a girlfriend."

"I'm not good with girls," I lied.

"Bullshit, I've seen you charm the models," she said, and I fought to hide a smile.

She continued. "Look, Jeremy... If you keep looking for answers in the same place, you're just going to find the same thing. If you haven't found what you're looking for... look elsewhere."

Dr. Addison left me to my thoughts.

I felt like I couldn't draw that evening, which was a weird sensation because I almost always felt the need to draw. It helped me understand my thoughts and my feelings. It was how I preferred to communicate. But I knew I needed was to try Dr. Addison's advice and look somewhere else for the answers to the questions I didn't even know I was asking, so I pulled a tarp over the painting, and left the campus.

***

Walking around downtown, I grabbed dinner and a beer and sat at the bar for an hour. I watched to the game. I watched a couple try to get their kids under control. I watched another couple attempt to mend a broken relationship, but eventually give up, toast each other, and go their separate ways. I watched the bartender count his tips, and try to do the mental math in his head of how much more he needed to make ends meet. I watched three girls supporting their girlfriend as she embarked on her new "singleness journey" after a long-term relationship ended. I watched a man complaining to his bored buddy about how his mom didn't like his wife, and his wife didn't like his sister, and how he wasn't sure how he was going to survive the upcoming Easter cookout, while his friend tried to watch the game.

I tried to find the same fire I normally felt when studying Tilly's photographs, but nothing I saw inspired me, so I paid and left. I watched people on the street, college students milling around with friends on a Thursday night, excited for the weekend. I watched busy older couples avoid the young people, pretending to hate them for their youth and stupidity, but secretly wishing they could be them. I walked up to the dunes and watched the sun fall down into the ocean, and felt... absolutely nothing.

My mind was on Tilly, and why I couldn't stop drawing her. Who was this girl that I'd taken for granted? Why was it that I was so drawn to her? She was pretty, but nothing special. She was smart, but not a genius. She was a hard worker, but she had to be to prove herself.

Great. I'm thinking about Tilly again. Why do I always end up here?

I wondered if she'd still find me attractive, if she still liked my work. If she still felt anything for me. Maybe that was what I was trying to work out. I was worried that she followed my artwork online, and I'd stop posting it when I saw her comment. I see you.

On my way home, something bright caught my eye in a shop window. It was a small bookstore, and in the front window was a display promoting a book signing next weekend, the same day as the Senior art exhibit. A book cover decorated with bright reds, pinks, and yellows, with two cell phones on the front, and fun artistic text covered the front: Truth or Dare.

I looked at the author's name. Mattie Jones. Tilly's last name wasn't Jones, but... Mattie could be short for Matilda, right? And two cellphones with Truth or Dare on the front? Wasn't that what I had texted her?

I couldn't help it; I went into the bookstore and picked up a copy, flipping it open while standing there in the aisle.

The first line of the book read, "For as long as I can remember, I've been in love with Jeremy Black."

Stunned, I sank down to the floor in the bookstore, devouring the book in one sitting.

It was absolutely written by Tilly. The names of her bullies had been changed, and my character didn't match my physical appearance, but she described my smile and my voice, and the way I walked, and the things I said in exact detail, even using some of the insults and comments I'd thrown at her in the novel.

Tilly's story concocted a fantasy where, after our text conversation and her confession, we had continued getting to know each other, and eventually became friends, and then more. The guilt the male protagonist felt over hiding his identity led him to tell her the truth, resulting in a fracturing of their relationship.

I hated the ending. They went their separate ways, finding themselves and their healing through their respective arts, and eventually reconnecting and trying again for a friendship. The second time around, they became friends, but nothing more than that. They forgave each other and moved on, but they always considered each other "the one that got away."

I finished the book in one sitting, purchasing it on my way out of the bookstore. Back at home in front of my laptop, I went online and searched the reviews and the author. There wasn't much about her other than she was born and raised in the south, and there was no photo of her on her website or anywhere else I could find.

I went back to the beginning of the book and read it again, this time, paying a little closer attention to the girl who I'd missed out on. I read through the parts where she cried herself to sleep at night, feeling invisible and misunderstood. I read about the hurt and the betrayal she'd felt when she realized the guy she liked had been texting her pretending to be someone else, and had lied to her. I read about the anger and the acceptance, and the feelings of loss at what could have been. I read the part where she had lost all the respect she'd had for him... or at least, tried to, because even though she wanted to hate him, she just couldn't.

Somewhere in the middle of the third read-through, I drifted off to sleep.

The next day, I locked myself in a study room in the library, because that's where she would be right now, and I needed to feel that. I loved digital art, but I preferred the old-school method of holding chalks in my fingers and hearing the sound as it scraped across the paper.

I stared down at the blank white page and the box of colored pastels I had at my disposal. Tilly's book screamed in color, texture, vibrations, and emotion, and I needed my work to scream back.

I needed to see her, just as much as she needed to be seen.

Tilly

The book took off faster than I expected.

It was just something I cranked out over a few weekends, messily and emotionally brain-vomiting all over my computer. When my professor read the draft I'd sent her on the off-chance it was any good, she'd sent it directly to her own agent, and I'd gotten my first contract.

The next few years were a flurry of edits, deadlines, and cover designs. I was brainstorming two new follow-up novels, and planned to start writing full time when I graduated. My book tours were all scheduled for the summer while I was out of school, and my Senior year was done remotely so I could continue doing book signings and events. Senior year was mostly reading and writing projects anyway, and I didn't need to be in class.

I was doing a signing down in Wilmington, about two hours away from my hometown. I knew Red and Micah were both still down at the university, but I doubted they'd be at a bookstore, especially since they both definitely knew I was aware of their prank. After all, I'd written a damn book about it. Micah had called me out on it last year, and I told him to fuck off, and I asked if he had told Red that I'd written a book.

He said he hadn't, and awkwardly looked away.

I loved that book because it gave me freedom. I'd taken my own fantasy and squashed it, hard, in hopes that I could finally get over the asshole who broke my heart.

That was overdramatic. He didn't break my heart, and he wasn't an asshole. It was just never meant to happen. I liked someone who didn't like me back, and that's all there was to it.

But in my book... he saw me. He understood me. He wanted me back. We fell in love... and then out of it again. We moved on.

Which, apparently, was something I was incapable of doing. Because the second romance I was currently brainstorming and attempting to write was about two pen-pals who met in person by accident, and neither of them knew it, and they ended up hating each other, then writing to each other about the experience. And of course, Red had inspired the male protagonist.

I hated to admit it, but he had become my reluctant muse.

The book signing at the tiny little bookstore downtown was a decent success. I sold a good number of books and spoke with a few other writers and some students. I had the rest of the afternoon off, and I had planned to go to the beach and spend a few hours with my toes in the sand, something I hadn't done in almost three years. On my way out of the bookstore, I saw a sign promoting an event at the university that was happening today: Senior Art Exhibit, free to the public!

I can't go to that, I told myself. Red will absolutely be there. He's a Senior this year, and an art major. But I wondered if I could get away with it.

I looked different now than I did in High School. I wasn't as plain, and my hair was dyed a more golden shade than my natural color. I'd ditched the glasses for contacts, and I'd learned how to do my makeup. I wore cute clothes instead of baggy jeans, and favored wide-brimmed hats now. It was unlikely he was still stalking my Instagram, right?

It's fine, Tilly. He's just a boy who you liked, who never liked you back. That romantic fantasy in your head of one day reconnecting is total bullshit.

Even though I really didn't want it to be bullshit.

So, since I had a few hours, and the rest of the weekend at my disposal before my next book tour, I headed onto campus for the art exhibit.

The very first thing that assaulted me when I walked through the doors of the Fine and Performing Arts Center, was my own face.

I stopped dead in the middle of the entryway, jostled forwards by the patrons behind me. Embarrassed, I hurried through the doors, unable to turn around and go back. I wasn't sure what else to do, so I approached the piece.

It was a huge painting, maybe four- or five-feet square. An oil portrait of my face, my eyes looking straight ahead and practically making eye contact with the viewer. In it, I was walking away from some vague chaotic action happening behind me, painted in reds and browns. The energy of the work displayed a deep motivation to escape whatever was behind me, and my face portrayed anger, frustration, and very subtle relief at the escape of the redness over my shoulder. Though my eyes were fierce, there was a hint of a smile on my lips... and maybe just a touch of revenge.

I stared at it in disbelief for far longer than what felt appropriate. When I finally dragged my eyes away from the painting, I read the label at the bottom. Jeremy Hutchins. Wet-on-wet oil. Title: She Chose Dare.