CHAPTER 195: GIRLS’ DAY OUT: HAUTE ART HAVOC

The drive to Canvas and Cabernet was mercifully shorter, but no less eventful. Our vintage convertible, with two women in identical, show-stopping burgundy cloths and knee-high boots, drew a fresh wave of stares. We exchanged grins, feeling like secret agents on a glamorous, slightly unhinged mission. The G-Wagon once again followed, a silent, powerful shadow.

Canvas and Cabernet turned out to be in a vibrant, artsy part of town, nestled between a quirky bookstore and a brightly painted coffee shop. It wasn’t the hushed reverence of the boutique; this place buzzed with lively chatter, upbeat music, and the clinking of glasses. As we entered, the contrast was immediate and hilarious.

The studio was filled with long communal tables, each set with easels, paintbrushes, tubes of acrylic, and – crucially – a half-filled wine glass. Most of the patrons were in comfortable jeans or casual dresses, already a few sips into their creative journey, their attempts at replicating the landscape scene on the instructor’s canvas ranging from surprisingly good to hilariously abstract.

And then there were us.

The room went quiet for a beat. All eyes swiveled towards the two women who had just glided in, identical visions of burgundy power, their boots clicking purposefully on the polished concrete floor.

Someone actually dropped their brush into their wine glass. Another woman muttered, "Oh my god, are they models?" under her breath.

It was like a high-fashion invasion of a village fete.

A young woman with paint smudges on her apron greeted us, her eyes wide. "Welcome to Canvas and Cabernet! Do you have a reservation?"

"Aria Smith and Isabella Miller," Aria announced, her voice perfectly modulated, as if she were addressing a gala rather than a painting class. "And yes, we expect prime easel placement and a generous pour of your finest Pinot noir. We’re here to make... statements."

The apron-clad woman, still a little stunned, led us to two easels at the front, perfectly positioned to observe and be observed. As we sat down, sliding onto surprisingly comfortable bar stools, Aria leaned in towards me, her smile contagious.

"See?" she whispered. "The stage is set. Let’s make some magic, Isabella. Or at least, some impressively messy art."

Within moments, two generous glasses of ruby-red wine were placed before us. The instructor, a genial man with an impressive beard and an even more impressive ability to remain calm amidst the creative chaos, gave a brief, encouraging introduction. He demonstrated how to mix a vibrant blue for the sky, how to dab for fluffy clouds, and how to create the illusion of distant mountains.

I looked at the brush in front of me, feeling a bit weird but brushed off the feeling.

Aria, meanwhile, had already dipped her brush into a startlingly bright yellow, ignoring the instructor’s muted palette, a look of fierce concentration on her face.

"Aria," I whispered, "that’s supposed to be the sky."

She flicked her wrist, sending a bold streak of yellow blazing across her canvas. "It’s my sky, Isabella. A fiery dawn of feminine wrath." She narrowed her eyes, then suddenly dipped her brush into the red paint. "And now—look out!"

Before I could react, a tiny splash of crimson landed on my easel. I gasped, scandalized, and retaliated by dabbing my brush into blue and flicking it back at her.

Aria let out a delighted shriek as the blue splattered across the edge of her canvas.

"Oh, it’s war you want?" she hissed dramatically, whipping her brush like a sword.

"Aria, don’t—"

Too late. A splatter of red and yellow arced through the air, narrowly missing me but landing squarely on the instructor’s easel. The poor man blinked at his now "sunset-on-fire" demonstration piece, sighed heavily, and continued on as though two deranged goddesses of chaos weren’t destroying his studio.

I pressed a hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh, but it was hopeless. Aria’s grin was manic, her boots braced against the rung of her stool as though she was ready to duel me across the tables. I lunged forward and swiped a fat streak of green across the edge of her canvas.

"You dare vandalize my masterpiece?" she gasped, hand clutching her chest in mock offense. "Fine. If that’s how you want it—"

She grabbed the nearest bottle of spritzed water (meant for softening acrylics) and gave it a quick squeeze at me. A fine mist hit my cheek. My outraged squeal turned into laughter so loud that the girls across from us started giggling too, clinking their wine glasses in encouragement.

Within seconds, we were both in a full-on duel, aprons flapping as we leaned and dodged. Splashes of paint dotted our canvases, our aprons, and even the floor, while our outfits stayed mercifully safe under the heavy protective fabric.

The instructor, bless his patient soul, merely widened his eyes for a moment, adjusted his impressive beard, and pretended not to notice the riot erupting at the front tables. The other patrons, initially stunned, soon dissolved into a mix of chuckles, gasps, and outright cheers. A few enterprising souls even joined the fray, sending rogue splatters of ochre and viridian across neighboring canvases, transforming the serene landscape scene into a vibrant, abstract battleground of color.

Aria and I, however, were lost in our own private, paint-fueled universe. Our laughter echoed through the studio, bright and unburdened.

The instructor tried valiantly to reclaim control, raising his brush like a peace flag. "Now, everyone, let’s blend the background mountains with—"

Growl. Growl.

The sound reverberated like an untimely drumroll. For a heartbeat, I thought it was just me, mortified—until Aria froze, eyes wide, before her own stomach answered in perfect harmony.

For one long beat, the room was silent.

Then we looked at each other.

And burst out laughing so hard I nearly toppled off my stool.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Aria gasped, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye, a tiny blue smudge now adorning her cheek. "The goddesses of chaos are... hungry goddesses!"

"I can’t—" I could barely breathe between giggles, my own stomach rumbling again as if on cue. "We’re literally starving."

Aria pressed the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. "What does one eat after such a performance, Izzy? A victory feast of...what? Sushi? Burgers? Don’t you dare say salad."

I pursed my lips, pretending to consider, then said with absolute conviction: "Pizza."

Aria smacked the table like she was sealing a royal decree. "Sold."