Episode One—The Girl With the Paintbrush
The first thing Samuel Dwesikurt noticed about Adila Kentucky was the paint on her fingers.
Not her face.
Not her hair.
Not even the fact that she had walked straight past him without looking his way.
It was the blue paint smeared across her right thumb.
Samuel stood outside the student union at Westbridge College in Atlanta, holding a paper cup of coffee and watching the girl hurry across the courtyard with a canvas tucked beneath her arm.
“Bro.”
Samuel didn't answer.
His roommate, Marcus Bell, followed his gaze.
“Oh, no.”
Samuel finally looked at him. “What?”
“I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The look you get when you're about to make somebody else's life unnecessarily complicated.”
Samuel laughed.
“I was looking at her.”
“Exactly.”
They watched Adila stop beside a bench.
She placed the canvas against the wall and opened her bag.
A pencil fell out.
Then another.
Then a small tube of paint.
She sighed.
“She's got half an art store in that bag,” Marcus muttered.
Samuel took a sip of coffee.
“She's cute.”
“She's trouble.”
“You don't know her.”
“I know women who carry paintbrushes around at eight in the morning.”
Samuel looked at him.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means she's either very talented or very dramatic.”
“Could be both.”
Across the courtyard, Adila finally found what she was looking for.
Her phone.
She checked the time.
“Damn it.”
She grabbed her canvas and hurried toward the humanities building.
She didn't notice the approaching cyclist.
Samuel did.
“Hey!”
Too late.
The cyclist swerved.
Adila jumped backward.
Her canvas slipped from her hand.
It landed directly against Samuel's coffee.
Brown liquid splashed across the bottom half of the painting.
Silence.
Adila stared at the ruined canvas.
Then at Samuel.
Then at the coffee dripping from his hand.
“You've got to be kidding me.”
Samuel looked down at his shirt.
“You spilled my coffee.”
Adila blinked.
“Your coffee?”
“Yes.”
“You almost crashed into me.”
“You were standing in the middle of the walkway.”
“I was standing beside a bench.”
“You were standing beside the bench in the middle of the walkway.”
She stared at him.
He stared back.
Marcus slowly walked away.
“Nope,” he muttered. “I'm not getting involved.”
Adila looked at the painting.
The bottom corner was ruined.
Her expression changed.
Samuel noticed.
“Wait.”
She carefully lifted the canvas.
“I'm sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I said I'm sorry.”
“That's not what your face says.”
“My face is saying you just ruined three hours of work.”
Samuel glanced at the painting.
It was a portrait.
A young Black woman stared back at them from the canvas, unfinished but striking.
“You painted that?”
Adila gave him a look.
“No. I stole it from the Louvre.”
Samuel smiled.
“So you are funny.”
“I wasn't trying to be.”
She wiped the canvas with a tissue.
It only made things worse.
Samuel reached into his backpack.
“Here.”
He pulled out a clean cloth.
She hesitated before taking it.
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
She dabbed the painting carefully.
Samuel watched.
“You're good.”
Adila glanced at him.
“You've seen one painting.”
“I can still tell.”
She smiled despite herself.
Then she looked at his coffee-stained shirt.
“I'm sorry about your shirt.”
Samuel looked down.
“You're buying me another coffee.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Excuse me?”
“You ruined mine.”
“You ruined my painting.”
“Exactly. So we're even.”
She stared at him for a moment.
Then laughed.
“Fine.”
Samuel smiled.
“I'm Samuel.”
“I didn't ask.”
“I know.”
She picked up her canvas.
“Adila.”
And walked away.
Samuel watched her leave.
Marcus returned beside him.
“So?”
Samuel smiled.
“So what?”
Marcus shook his head.
“You're already gone.”
Later that afternoon
Adila sat alone in the back of the campus cafeteria, working on her painting.
Her friend Tasha Reed dropped into the chair opposite her.
“You're late.”
“I know.”
“Professor Miller locked the classroom five minutes after you left.”
“I know.”
Tasha noticed the stained corner of the canvas.
“What happened?”
“Some idiot spilled coffee on it.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Was he cute?”
Adila looked up.
“What?”
“You only look that irritated when a cute man annoys you.”
“He wasn't cute.”
Tasha smiled.
“That's not what I asked.”
Adila rolled her eyes.
“He was annoying.”
“What's his name?”
“Samuel.”
Tasha's smile disappeared.
“Samuel Dwesikurt?”
Adila frowned.
“You know him?”
“Everybody knows him.”
“Why?”
Tasha leaned closer.
“Football team. Smart. Popular. His father owns some construction company. Girls practically throw themselves at him.”
Adila looked back at her painting.
“Good for him.”
Tasha laughed.
“You're not interested?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
Tasha hesitated.
“Because guys like him don't date girls like us.”
Adila looked at her.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Say it.”
Tasha sighed.
“Samuel likes attention. That's all.”
Adila shrugged.
“Then he can get it somewhere else.”
She returned to painting.
But despite herself, she smiled.
That evening
Samuel sat on the steps outside his dorm with Marcus.
“You're smiling,” Marcus said.
“No, I'm not.”
“You've been smiling at your phone for ten minutes.”
Samuel looked down.
There was a message from an unknown number.
You owe me a coffee.
He laughed.
He typed:
You owe me a painting.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
You owe me a new shirt.
Samuel smiled.
Marcus leaned over.
“Is that her?”
Samuel locked the phone.
“No.”
Marcus laughed.
“You're terrible at lying.”
Samuel stood.
“I'm going to class.”
“You have class tomorrow.”
Samuel stopped.
Marcus grinned.
“Exactly.”
Samuel shook his head and walked away.
That night, Adila sat by her bedroom window.
Her unfinished painting rested on the table.
She opened her sketchbook.
For a few seconds, she stared at the blank page.
Then she drew.
A man's face slowly appeared.
Strong jaw.
Short hair.
A faint smile.
She stopped.
Adila stared at the drawing.
“Seriously?”
She closed the sketchbook.
But she didn't throw it away.
And across campus, Samuel was doing something surprisingly similar.
He was looking at a small smear of blue paint still stuck to his thumb.
He smiled.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But this was the beginning of something that would follow them for years.
