Chapter 47

    Chapter 47: I'd Keep My Storm

    LYRIC SPENCER POV

    For the rest of the class, I refused to acknowledge him. My brush moved in frantic, sharp strokes, splattering paint with more force than necessary. Each color I chose—deep reds, bruised purples, slashes of black—felt like they bled straight from my chest.

    Gavin didn’t speak. He didn’t text. But I could feel him watching, like a storm brewing just out of sight.

    It wasn’t until the teacher announced clean-up that he finally moved. He stretched lazily, his broad shoulders rolling back as if this whole thing was just a game.

    "Nice painting," he murmured under his breath.

    I shot him a glare.

    It was a mistake.

    His eyes weren’t teasing anymore. They weren’t smug. They were searching—serious in a way that made my stomach tighten.

    I tore my gaze away, shoving my brushes into the cup of murky water.

    "Everybody, drop your brushes," Miss Lia announced. Her gaze turned stern when it met mine but relaxed when it landed on Gavin. "Who’s going first?"

    Every day, Miss Lia did this thing where one person would present their artwork, and everyone would give their input. She would share her thoughts, and then the artist would explain the true meaning behind their piece. It was my favorite part of the class.

    Except for the talking part.

    People didn’t like it when I used my phone or the nonexistent board to write about my art. So, I had never spoken about it.

    I prayed I would one day. I hoped she would choose me and that they would let me express my art in my own way.

    Unfortunately, wishes weren’t horses.

    Suddenly, everyone shot their hands up in excitement, smiles lighting up their faces. My gaze met Janice’s, and she crinkled her nose in disgust.

    Yep. We weren’t friends.

    "Yes, you, Janice!" Miss Lia picked her from the crowd.

    In all honesty, I knew Janice was the teacher’s pet. She always went first.

    I wanted to go first for once. Or even at all.

    Janice smirked as she strutted to the front, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder like she was about to unveil the Mona Lisa. I barely paid attention, still scrubbing paint off my fingers, my mind too tangled in frustration to focus.

    Then I heard my name.

    “Lyric should go first. It's time for a change.”

    Gavin’s voice.

    I froze.

    Miss Lia’s brows lifted in pleasant surprise. “That’s a wonderful idea, Gavin.” She turned to me. “Lyric, would you like to share today?”

    I wanted to say no. I should have said no.

    But my traitorous hands were already reaching for my phone.

    Janice let out a fake little gasp. “Wait—she’s actually going up?” She laughed, her voice sharp. “How’s she gonna explain it? Through text-to-speech?”

    A few snickers rippled through the class. My face burned with anger and mortification. I had expected this.

    Gavin’s jaw clenched. He didn't even raise his voice to sound harsh, “Shut up, Janice.”

    Miss Lia shot Janice a warning look before turning back to me. “Lyric?”

    I swallowed hard and stood.

    The walk to the front felt like trudging through wet cement. I set my painting on the easel, my heart hammering. The colors looked angrier than they had before—jagged reds slashed through deep purples, chaos barely contained on the canvas. It was a painting of a storm, a hurricane, and a tsunami all in one. Perfectly merged together to form the perfect chaos.

    There was blood running down trenches, and forever burning people alive, flying pigs, and water flooding.

    I grabbed my phone and typed quickly, my hands slightly unsteady. The robotic voice crackled to life.

    “This painting is about—”

    And then, my phone died. Was this a joke from God? Or a sign??

    Silence.

    Absolute, suffocating silence.

    I stared at the screen in horror. We had a power cut yesterday, which returned this morning when I was preparing the kids for school.

    Someone coughed. A few whispers skittered across the room. I died inside every time I heard a sound.

    Panic crawled up my throat. My breathing turned uneven. I scrambled for my notebook—where is it, where is it—but my bag was still at my desk.

    I was stuck. Not in traffick this time but a lion's den with unforgiving hungry lions. I was no Daniel.

    Frozen. Like Jack after the Titanic sank.

    Then, before I could react, Gavin stood up. My eyes never left his as he approached me. Although, my vision was blurry with tears.

    “This painting,” he said, stepping beside me, his voice steady, “is about anger.”

    My breath hitched.

    “The kind that burns, the kind that sits in your chest and doesn’t let go.” He glanced at me, as if asking for permission. I didn’t move.

    “The colors—” he gestured to the canvas “—they don’t just blend. They clash. They fight for space. It’s not just anger. It’s hurt.”

    The room was dead quiet.

    Gavin turned to me again. His eyes, the same ones that had been taunting me minutes ago, now held something else.

    Understanding.

    I swallowed. Then, slowly, I nodded.

    However, I felt more seen today than I have ever been in my entire life. I cast a glance at Hawkins; he had taken my phone with the charger and plugged it into the switch next to our seat.

    I felt butterflies in my stomach. I felt cared for. I felt special.

    Miss Lia smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, which made me relieved. “Thank you, Lyric. And thank you, Gavin.”

    I grabbed my painting and walked back to my seat, my pulse still thundering in my ears.

    As I sat down, Gavin slid into the chair next to me, leaning in just slightly.

    “Was I close?” he murmured.

    I hesitated, then tapped my fingers twice against the desk.

    Yes. I raised my thumb up, acting nonchalant as if this hadn't been the best part of my day.

    I felt seen by Gavin Hawkins. I could not help hut smile. He noticed and mirrored it.

    My heart skipped a beat.

    "Ma'am, is this my turn now? " Janice asked in fake politeness.

    "Yes dear. Come up, I wonder what you have under your sleeves this time. "

    Blowing her gum, she replied. "The whole class is wondering the same ma'am."

    Janice practically flounced to the front of the room, her grin wide and self-satisfied. She set her painting on the easel with a dramatic flourish, stepping back like she’d just unveiled a masterpiece.

    It was… a pink flower.

    A single, delicate, annoyingly perfect pink flower, sitting in the middle of a white canvas. Soft, pastel petals, a golden center, and a few green leaves curling daintily at the edges.

    I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She just made me hate the color pink.

    Miss Lia beamed, clapping in excitement. “Lovely, Janice! Tell us about your inspiration.”

    Janice flipped her hair again, her eyes never leaving mine. “Well,” she started, clearing her throat “I wanted to paint elegance. Something simple, yet sophisticated. You know, not messy.”

    Her eyes flicked toward me for half a second.

    Oh, I knew that was a jab.

    “The flower represents grace,” she continued, pressing a hand to her chest like some kind of saint. “Because true beauty doesn’t have to be loud.”

    The subtle dig was so obvious that even a few students exchanged looks. Gavin let out a short, unimpressed breath beside me.

    Miss Lia, ever the professional, simply nodded. “It’s a very delicate piece. What does it mean to you personally?”

    Janice tilted her head, all faux-thoughtful. “Well, I do think it reflects me a little.” She let out a breathy little laugh. “Soft, put-together, and, you know… refined.”

    Oh my god. She blew a kiss to the class. Wow

    I stared at my own painting—a chaotic storm of color, sharp and raw and anything but refined.

    I clenched my fists.

    Miss Lia gave a wide smile. Like the painting was so complex, she touched Janice's shoulder softly “Thank you, Janice. That was a thoughtful explanation.”

    Janice curtsied. Actually curtsied. I heard her friends cheering.

    As she pranced back to her seat, her gaze flicked toward me again, this time with an unmistakable smirk.

    I looked away, biting the inside of my cheek.

    That was fine.

    She could have her perfect little flower.

    I’d keep my storm.