Seconds Before Sunrise (The Timely Death Trilogy) by Shannon A. Thompson Page B

practically a photograph from my vision. The river created the perfection I’d been striving for, but there was one problem. I hadn’t painted it, and there was only one person I knew who could’ve done it.
    Jonathon Stone.
    He was sitting in his usual corner, his back facing the class, and I had to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. I recognized the artist stare plastered on his face when he turned around. His painting engrossed him. It was of a woman I’d never seen before.
    “Who’s that?” I ask ed.
    H e took off his glasses to rub his eye. “No one important,” he said, replacing his glasses.
    “She must be if yo u’re painting her.”
    H e gestured to the empty spot next to him. I retrieved a chair and sat down, but he didn’t talk. The painting was vivid enough that I looked for a photograph in his lap, but there wasn’t. He was painting from memory.
    He laid his paintbrush down. “It’s my mom.” His spine straightened up, but his shoulders, somehow, remained slumped. “She walked out.”
    “Oh.” I didn’t want to intrude any more than I already had. “Thanks for finishing my painting.”
    “I’m sorry I did that .” His fingertips shook. “But I couldn’t stop myself.”
    “I’m glad you did,” I clarified, but his guilt was apparent.
    “It wasn’t mine to finish.”
    “I co uldn’t finish it myself,” I pointed out.
    “I know.”
    I wondered how he recognized what was missing. His eye for color and the shape of a piece was beyond masterful. I had only started painting in our class, but I already felt a connection to it, and I envied how much passion he had for something I was unable to complete.
    “You’ll get there one day,” he said. “You’re very good.”
    “Maybe you can teach me one of these days,” I said, hoping he would tutor me, but he didn’t respond to the invite. My cheeks burned. “How’d you know what to do?”
    “I followed your style,” he began, pausing as if he were contemplating an explanation. “Sometimes an outside perspective is the clearer perspective.”
    “That’s unbelievable,” I breathed, staring at the teenage boy as if I were staring at one of the greats. “You’re really something, you know that?”
    “Thanks,” he squeaked . He was uncomfortable, and I hated to be the one who caused that.
    “How’s Eric?” I changed the subject.
    “He’ll be home tomorrow .”
    Tomorrow was earlier than I was expecting.
    “That’s great,” I said, wondering how soon I should visit him. I wanted to, but I didn’t want to seem pushy. “Is he excited?”
    Jonathon chuckled. “More than he was when he got his car.”
    The reminder silenced us. Eric’s car was gone, but at least he was alive. I looked around the classroom and studied the students who treated Eric like simple gossip. It was bad enough that Eric’s car wreck happened, but kids constantly compared it with his last car wreck − when Abby died − like it was nothing. I wanted the gossip to stop.
    “Well, I’m glad I could help you with your painting,” Jonathon said, splitting throu gh my thoughts.
    I stood up. “I’ll let you get back to yours.”
    H e gestured to his. “Any thoughts?”
    It was his mother. I couldn’t possibly help him with it.
    “Be honest,” he said.
    I breathed, looking over the curve of her cheekbones, the lightness of her eyes, the watery skin of her face.
    “Her complexion could use some color,” I suggested.
    H e turned back. “I’ll consider that,” he said. “Thank you, Jess.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    I felt strange helping someone who helped me, but that’s what friends did, and Jonathon felt more like a friend than he had when he first talked to me. He practically saw my dreams, and I thought about what he said.
    Maybe all I needed was an outsid e perspective to understand my dreams, and I already knew the perfect person to talk to. I only had to figure out when I would see him next.

     
    Eric
     
    I was finally