Draw Me In (13 page)

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Authors: Megan Squires

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It was a great time, but didn

t last long. I was fired after three
weeks.


Why

s that?


I figured the same thing might go for
guys, you know? So I stole my uncle

s
cigarette pack and hiked down to Bobby Dean

s house at the end of the road and
lit one up, hoping it might tear down his defenses and I could at least steal
my first kiss from him.

Leo

s mouth twitched and I could tell he
was trying to control it from turning into a full-fledged grin.

How

d that work out for you?


I burnt his house down.

Food/glue
shot out of Leo

s
mouth and onto my dress.

Quickly,
obviously without thinking because that was often the case for things that
happened quickly, Leo smothered my chest with his huge napkin-cloaked hand,
rubbing the stain away frantically. I, however, reacted quickly while
also
thinking and arched my back just
enough to make my B-cup more like a C, so at the very least he might be a
little impressed with my rack.


Oh God, Julie. I

m so sorry.

His hand retracted like I was on
fire and his eyes almost fell out of his head.


For the projectile spitting? Or the
boob grabbing?


Both.

He looked down at his lap, his
fingers wrapped together so tightly I could see the white of his knuckles
pressing through the transparent skin. It was like he was scolding them or they
were in time out. Bad, bad boys.

You

re not gonna file a sexual harassment
report or anything?

he joked, eyes still cast downward.


Trust me, you weren

t harassing them...er,
me
. It

s all good.

It was unreal how cute he was when
he was embarrassed.

You

re not gonna report me to the
authorities for arson, are you?


You didn

t get caught?


No. It ended up being documented as a
pellet stove mishap. I felt a little guilty at first, but I also ended up
getting that kiss from Bobby Dean and it was hands down one of the worst
experiences of my life, so I sorta felt justified in the whole house
incinerating incident.


Man, tough break for Bobby. That

s a pretty bad punishment for being a
bad kisser.


Aren

t they all, though?

We were finally back to making eye
contact.

First
kisses, I mean. Aren

t
they always awful? Even each first kiss with a new person, it

s almost always a train wreck.

Oh
man, his lips went all pouty in a way that could only make me think of slamming
mine against his and ravaging him on our pallet/table.


I think maybe you

ve been kissing the wrong people.

My
insides just cooked themselves, it had gotten so hot in here. Sweat dripped
from my palms and I could feel it gathering in my armpits, too. My nerves
turned liquid, seeping out of me in perspiration.

I think maybe you picked the wrong restaurant,

I stammered.

Not only do they serve school
supplies in place of food, but they

re
clearly trying double as a Hot Yoga studio and I

m sure that breaks all kinds of
permit laws.

He
had no idea what I was saying, which wasn

t
odd because I hardly knew what I was saying. I wanted to flip over my
pail-chair and hide inside it. It was big enough for that.


You

re right, this isn

t my best choice. Make it up to you
in Tuscany?

He
was good.


Well, that

s hardly fair because eating off of a
bathroom floor in an Italian petrol station is still better than any restaurant
you can find in the U.S.

That was pretty close to the truth, for me at least. Everything was better when
done Italian-style.


Well then, to level the playing
field, how about I make it up to you by cooking you an authentic Italian dinner
at our vineyard?

I
laughed.

That

s not leveling the playing field.
That

s
completely obliterating the playing field.


You haven

t tried my cooking.

No,
he was right, I hadn

t.
But just spending a morning

s
worth of time with him proved to me that Leo Carducci was unlike any other man
I

d ever met. Maybe he

d called me original, but God pulled
out all the stops when He

d
made Leo.

And
it seemed as though Leo was about to pull out all the stops, too, in the form
of a nonstop flight to the Italian countryside.


Florence or bust?

He lifted a half disintegrated cup
into the air.


Florence or bust.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

You

d think after packing for
international travel at least a dozen times before that it would be something
that was sort of second nature. Do in your sleep kind of thing.

But
it wasn

t
for me, so naturally, I asked Eva over to help rummage through my closet. She
was by far the most stylish girl I knew, and I

d been meaning to catch up with her
this past week but never got the chance. Tonight was a good opportunity to kill
two birds with one stone.


What about this?

I held up a cowl neck sweater by its
wire hanger. It was purple and the cable knit was too thick and I think my
grandma might have even made it, but who knew? Neon and tie-die made unexpected
comebacks. Maybe old lady sweaters were next to make the rounds.


That

s hot.


Really?

Cause it kinda seems a little
outdated.

Eva
laughed.

No,
I mean it

s
too hot. Remember, it

s
almost summer. You

ll
sweat to death in that.

Well,
I

d probably sweat to death in a string
bikini. Leo got me all hot and bothered.


Right.

Scooting
past me, she pulled out six different outfits in one movement and tossed them
onto the bed, the hangers clattering against each other. Floral and stripes and
patterned materials twisted together in a fabric work of abstract art.

That should do.


Looks good to me.

Without bothering to peruse through
her selections, I stuffed them into my suitcase and dropped down onto the
mattress, tucking my legs up to my chest.

So,
I

ve been meaning to catch up with you
—”


We

re moving, Miss Thornton,

Eva interjected. The way she
desperately said it made me feel as though this had to be the worst-case
scenario for her life, and I tried to remember back to when I was a teenager in
an attempt to relate. But honestly, had my parents told me we were moving from
our rural North Dakota ranch to anywhere else in the country, I probably would
have done a back handspring and double layout, and I was a girl that never even
mastered the simple art of cartwheeling. Honestly, I couldn

t even somersault without feeling
like I might snap my neck in two.


You

re moving? Where to?


Mom

s not sure where we

ll go yet, but we have to get out of our
apartment by the end of the week. She

s
got a friend that offered a room starting next month. But that

s over three weeks away.

I

d only met Eva

s mom once before, but I remember
instantly thinking she was the type of mom any young artist would want to have.
Supportive and encouraging. Motherly, but just hip enough that you wanted her
around and weren

t
embarrassed to have her meet your friends. And I knew she was also an artist
and at one time ran her own pottery studio.


Well,

I began, taking Eva

s slender fingers into mine.
Sometimes actual contact could help emphasize words, like placing physical
italics on them through touch.

I

d have to clear it with Ian first,
but I happen to know of a bedroom that

s
going to need some inhabitants for the next few weeks.

A
little life sparked into Eva

s
eyes.

What?
Like you mean your room? But we can

t
pay you. That

s
the whole problem
—”


Doesn

t sound like a problem to me. In
fact, it sounds like the perfect scenario. While I

m gone, I

ll need someone to help out at the
co-op, and I can

t
think of a better person for that than your mom. Think of it as payment for
rent, if you want.

I
didn

t
mean to make her cry, but something in my offer started the deluge of what I
hoped were happy tears.

Miss
Thornton, I can

t.
I mean, I don

t
know how to...


Have your mom call me. I

ll talk it over with Ian, but I

m sure he

ll be fine with it.


Fine with what?

Ian

s sharp voice interjected like a
blade into our conversation as he entered my room. His messenger bag crossed
over his chest and he ran his fingers up and down the strap. I could tell he

d just come from class. The way his
shirt was half-tucked into his low-rise jeans also made me wonder if he

d actually been recruited for more
modeling. That was definitely a haphazard rush-to-get-dressed look.


With sharing the apartment with Eva
and her mom while I

m
in Italy.

I
hadn

t
even told Ian about my plans to board a plane tomorrow morning and fly halfway
across the world. And here I was springing an entirely new living situation on
him. Luckily, he loved me, otherwise he would have every right to be royally
pissed.


No can do. I can

t share.

Well,
I supposed it really wasn

t
right of me to ask him in front of Eva. This had quickly become all kinds of
uncomfortable, and I

d
had a root canal three times, so I was well acquainted with uncomfortable.


I can

t share, because I won

t
be
here.

Ian shifted his weight to the tips of his toes and bounced like he had
something in him that wanted to burst out, sticks of dynamite trapped in his
shoes.

I
won

t
be
here
, because I

ll be there.

He flicked a finger out the window,
but that really didn

t
help to clarify at all.

In
Italy with you, Jules.


What?

I think I screamed that. I did
scream that, because poor Eva jolted upright like I

d just electrocuted her.

You

re going to Italy?


Yep. Apparently they were so
impressed with my photos that they

ve
hired me to document Leo

s
travels and the whole process of rebranding his business.

Well,
this day was turning into all kinds of wonderful.

I

d quite accidentally gotten to second
base with Leo, helped find a home for a displaced family, and now I was heading
to Italy with not only the hottest bachelor in Manhattan, but also with the
very best friend I

d
ever known.

This
was a banner day if ever I

d
had one.


So not only can you and your mother
have Jules

room, but you

re
welcome to the whole apartment.

The trickle turned into full-fledged whimpering and the appreciation was
evident not only on Eva

s
face, but in her tears.


I don

t know how to thank you.

She shoved her hands to her eyes to
dry them.


No thanks necessary.

With his two strong arms, Ian
wrapped her into his chest, his chin resting on top of her head, the way a dad
hugs his daughter.

That

s what friends are for.

 

***

 

But
I

d had it all wrong this whole time.

Ian
was no friend of mine.


Damn.

His
gaping reflection stared over mine in the bathroom mirror; two eyes wide enough
that they had their own reflection shining on their glassy surfaces.


I know, right?

I gritted my teeth so hard my brain
hurt. But my brain had been hurting for the past hour, so I supposed this just
added to that persistent, steady dullness.

This doesn

t look right.

I pulled up the app on my phone once
more for comparison.

Something
went wrong.

Ian
choked on a laugh that he tried to trap within him with about as much success
as one has in stopping a sneeze from barreling out.

Why do you look like that?

I
needed more clarification because I wasn

t
sure what it was that I looked like.

Like
a clown?


I was going to say drag queen. But
sure, yeah, a clown.

He swiped the phone from my grip and scrolled his finger down the webpage
quickly. Maybe he could help me pinpoint what went wrong.

This isn

t paint by number, Jules.


Actually, it sorta was. I was
supposed to put the highlighting shadow right here where the number one is.

I pointed to the shadow-caked eyelid
of the woman in the image with the tip of my nail.

And that darker color where the three
is.


For a girl that is a fine arts major,
I find it not only hysterical, but utterly appalling that you cannot even apply
makeup without suspiciously resembling Ru Paul.

I
smiled because saying I looked as good as Ru Paul right now was very generous
of him.


I thought those Pinterest images I
pinned for you would make it easier.


Nothing on Pinterest is easy, Ian.
Pinterest is the virtual playground for overachievers.

Gathering my mascara brush between
my fingers, I popped open my mouth and bugged out my eyes, assuming the natural
mascara-applying position.

I
can

t
hang on that playground. I don

t
even belong at that park. I

m
like
Makeup For Dummies
status.

Well, now I had two black spiders
for eyelashes, and they were so clumpy they look like they

d pooped on them.

Pinterest exists solely for the
purpose of reminding those that have no creative bone in their bodies that they
totally suck. Then it takes said bone and beats them over the head with it.

My eyelids were glued shut and I
started to panic because I really didn

t
want this makeup attempt to result in me being blinded. I kind of liked being
able to see, especially since lately I had something pretty damn hot to look
at.

It

s a brutal, unfair web of reality
checks, and they dole out those checks in the form of feelings of failure and
inadequacy.

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