Page 21 of Wicked Little Secret
Nyssa’s stretching her arm in the air, on tiptoe in an attempt to stand out among the crowd. Little does she realize she already does—while half of them match Theo’s uniform of endlessly stretchy athleisure wear, the other half look like burnouts who got dressed in the dark, donning wrinkled flannel and ripped jeans.
I’d expect nothing more out of college students and the adults willing to attend the art festival they’ve put on.
And then there’s Nyssa.
She’s put-together like she’s been put-together the other handful of times I’ve seen her. A beret sits atop the springy curls which frame her face, and her eyes light up as she sees I’ve noticed her. She’s in a simple black and mauve dress with buttons and tiny flowers that’s loose enough to be casual yet still somehow hints at her curves underneath.
As I make it closer, I realize the tiny flowers are dahlias.
Perfect for autumn. Perfect for the feminine and polished look she has while still being uniquelyher.
Seconds pass and I’m still lost in thought, digesting every observable detail about her. The bright smile she’s given me begins to dim, and she slowly lowers her arm as if realizing her mistake.
Her message.
Her chance at a second first impression.
The hope’s fading. Something indescribable clicks inside of me and I take a couple steps forward, closer toward her booth.
“Miss Oliver,” I say, nodding. “I’d say I’m surprised to see you here, but youarethe one who mentioned the festival to me.”
“And you’ve decided to come check out the art.” She clears her throat, likely sensing the eager lilt to her voice. She tries again in a slightly lower register. “I mean, if that’s why you’re here. Wedidset up in the middle of downtown.”
My shoulders lift in a shrug, hands still deep in my pockets, using the opportunity for a glance around the festival. “I’m not sure if I’d call it my decision. More so one that was made for me. I’m accompanying someone who really wanted to attend.”
“Dragged here by a friend. That seems to happen a lot here.”
“Not a friend.”
“Girlfriend? Sorry, is it strange that I said that? It’s none of my business.”
“Also not a girlfriend,” I cut in quickly. I’ve become acutely aware of every move I make. How I’ve drifted closer and closer to her booth with every word exchanged. “My sister. She’s around here somewhere.”
“That’s… strangely endearing.” Nyssa’s smile returns in its bright, perfect-toothed glory, even lighting her eyes a golden brown. Then she seems to realize what I have, that we’ve gotten sidetracked, and she flinches, gesturing to the sculpture on her right. “What do you think? It’s one of the pieces I’ve showcased for the festival.”
My brows draw together. I take yet another step closer. “You did this?”
“Painstakingly,” she answers with a soft laugh. “It took me three weeks, two days, and one sleepless night, but I finished in time. I call itTouch of a Lover.”
I’m caught in a situation I rarely find myself in—without a single word readily available. I’ve bridged the rest of the gap between Nyssa’s booth and where I had stood, coming within a few inches for an up-close study.
The sculpture’s well done.
That much is immediately clear. The expertise is everywhere, from the smooth, polished finish to the delicate lines of its very design.
Two human hands curled toward each other. One slender and smaller. The other larger and almost overpowering. Each with their own human sensibilities caught in clay form. Eyeing the rounded knuckles in the larger hand juxtaposed against the sharper, oval-shaped nails on the smaller hand, it’s hard not to be impressed.
I marvel how Nyssa took the time to etch so manydetails right down to the uniquely human lines on the inside of their palms.
But while the hands curl toward each other, fingers close to grazing, there’s a distinct coldness to the sculpture. Some sort of distance she’s communicating here, like two lovers yearning for closeness while being denied.
The elusiveness that sometimes comes with being so hopelessly in love…
I come to my senses with a hard blink against a sharp gust of wind, checking out of my rambling thoughts. Checking back into the moment where I find Nyssa watching me, wearing an expression that can only be described as uncertain.
She bites her bottom lip as if preparing for my brutal critique. As a student in my class, she’d know better than most that it’s what I’m capable of.
“It’s good,” I say finally. “It’s actually… very impressive.”