Draw Me In (34 page)

Other
times life was crap.

Mine
still felt a little on the crappy side, although I allowed myself to be happy
for those that didn
’
t
have the crap in theirs. Someday mine would be crap-free, I was sure of it. In
fact, I was allowing myself to get to that point. Life went on without Leo.
Maybe that was all the closure I would ever get. I think I would actually be
okay with that. I
’
d
have to be.

I
turned to the next costumer in line and pasted on a grin as Harold moved toward
the barista counter to wait for his drink. The patron was a tall brunette with
wire-rimmed glasses perched on her upturned nose. Her jacket was smart looking
and the matching gray pencil skirt made her seem like a business professional
that belonged behind a desk answering phones.
“
And what can I get you today?
”

I
grabbed my permanent marker and hovered my hand over a to-go cup, because based
on what she was wearing, I was certain she
’
d
be heading back to an office of some kind.

“
A four shot, iced Americano.
”

In
true Julie Thornton fashion, the cup slipped from my grip and clattered to the
floor.

“
I
’
m sorry,
”
I apologized, scrambling for another
cup. I scrawled out the order as my fingers trembled against the plastic.
“
Will that be all?
”

“
Yes,
”
she answered.
“
Thank you.
”
Reaching into her black purse, she
thrust a five-dollar bill my way.

“
Nothing for you?
”
I pressed a little bit, knowing this
couldn
’
t
be her coffee order. I knew in my gut it belonged to Leo. It just had to.

“
No. That will be all.
”
The five fluttered between us as she
shoved it further toward me.

I
quickly tossed it into the register and gave her back her change, eyeing her up
and down when I dropped it into her hand. Who was she? I didn
’
t remember Leo having an assistant of
any kind when I stopped by his office on my first day at the internship. She
looked new and the way her clothing appeared crisp and pleated hinted at the
idea that maybe she was new, donning her first day best.

I
tried not to stare as she busied herself with her phone, looking much more
important than I figured she actually was. Her manicured nails skated along the
touchscreen at the same time the phone rang suddenly within her palm.

The
sound made my heart jump, and I leaned further over the counter so I could
eavesdrop better. Yeah, I was real subtle.

“
Yes,
”
she answered without the need for a
hello
.
“
You
’
re all confirmed for tomorrow.
”
Just like I knew he was in New York
when I saw Walker on the street, I knew it was Leo on the other end of the
line. I could almost hear his voice as I guessed at what he was saying based on
her responses.
“
I
’
m here right now.
”
Her dark eyes slammed into mine and
my body reacted instantly, nearly knocking me over. I held tightly to the
corner of the counter to try to steady myself.
“
Yes,
”
she nodded. Why did I feel like that
answer had to do with me?
“
As
soon as it
’
s
ready I
’
ll
bring it over.
”

Temptation
pulled at me as I watched Dustin place her finished drink onto the counter. If
I just followed her back, I
’
d
see him, I knew I would. But there was a reason why Leo hadn
’
t reached out to me. And the more I
thought on it, the more it made me think that he
’
d better have a damn good one. You
don
’
t
just ship the love of your life off to another country, then fail to mention
the fact that you
’
re
actually back in said country. I didn
’
t
think love worked that way.

I
shook my head and shook off her gaze as she wrapped her hands around Leo
’
s drink and jammed a straw into the
lid. Then she caught me off guard when she took a sip with her own lips and
then crinkled her nose as though the bitterness of the coffee was something she
wasn
’
t
accustomed to. The thought of another woman
’
s mouth on something that was about
to be in Leo
’
s
made me just about retch all over the coffee bar. It made me sick.

“
You
’
re done for the day, Julie,
”
Cara said as she swiped a cloth over
the nearby table.
“
See
you tomorrow evening. Go ahead and clock out.
”

Still
in a daze, I nodded and slipped my neck out of the loop on my apron. If I
hurried, I could catch up with that woman. I could track Leo down. Maybe he had
been at his office all along. Obviously, I
’
d
thought of that, but the fact that I hadn
’
t
made any effort to see for myself led me to believe one thing.

Maybe
I didn
’
t
want to find Leo again. Because, when it came down to it, implied rejection was
an easier pill to swallow than enduring the harsh reality firsthand. With my
overactive gag reflex, that would make me choke.

But
I worried that never knowing would eat away at me, and to me, that might
actually be worse than choking on the truth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mid-afternoon
light funneled through the arched windows of the art studio, casting an amber-tinted
glow over the stained concrete floor. Gold swirls of dust floated through the
air and made the room feel almost magical, like something out of a movie. But I
supposed what we did in here was a bit like magic. As my classmates slid into
their desks and the metal legs of their chairs scraped against the ground, I
dropped my bag from my shoulder and flopped down into my own desk at the front
near the stool where our model would sit.

We
had another live one today, and I
’
d
already double-checked to make sure it wasn
’
t Ian. I just wasn
’
t up for that. I
’
d drawn him enough lately, even to
the point of drawing
on
him. Based on
the course schedule, we were supposed to have a female model and I welcomed
that change in subject matter. I needed to work on my feminine curves and
contours.

“
Good afternoon, class.
”
Professor Seyforth entered through
the door and threw her hands into the air in a grand gesture. She wore one of
those flowing dresses I loved so much. Maybe I should go shopping after class
today. Maybe I should ditch all of these moody girl clothes and pick up
something a bit more carefree. Something with a little more spirit. I could use
that.

“
Only three more sessions and our time
together will be over,
”
our professor said. There was a mix of cheers and groans as she placed her
belongings at her large wooden desk and began walking up and down the aisles
like she always did. She ignored those that protested and continued speaking.
“
For your next few compositions, I
want you to develop a theme. It can be a word. It can be phrase. A feeling or
emotion. But I want you to get used to the idea of titling your work. There are
very few museum pieces that don
’
t
have a title of some kind. Yours should not be the exception, since I plan on
viewing artwork from each and every one of you in a gallery one day soon.
”
She flashed a proud smile.

That
was something new for me. I seldom labeled my art because I honestly just wasn
’
t that creative when it came to
words. I usually just let the drawings speak for themselves.

“
Our model is running a few minutes
late, so feel free to pull out your sketchpads and continue working on your
piece from Monday until they arrive.
”

The
crinkling and fluttering of paper echoed around me as I flipped in my notebook
to the hands I started drawing earlier in the week. I couldn
’
t get the perspective right on them,
and the left one looked particularly craggily and crooked. More of a hook than
an actual hand.

That
gave me an idea.

I
quickly began swiping the eraser over the fingers in question until only a
shadow of their existence remained and a pile of pink rubber took their place.
I let my own fingers take over, shaping and blending to swap out the original
hand with a hook that snaked from the wrist in a curved J shape. A little like
Captain Hook, but not in cartoon form.

“
Very interesting, Julie,
”
Professor Seyforth acknowledged with
a nod. Her floral perfume stung my nose as she leaned closer to examine my
work.
“
What
do you call this one?
”

“
Hooked?
”
I said it as a question because I
hadn
’
t
thought to name it yet. I was still working on getting that reflective glint of
the gold to come across on the paper.

“
A very literal interpretation, yes,
”
she suggested.
“
I challenge you to come up with a
less direct label for today
’
s
work. Something that forces your viewer to see deeper into the piece.
”

I
nodded and twisted my pencil between my fingers, rolling it back and forth.
Though I liked where this composition was going, I still had work to do to get
it right where I wanted it.

I
was so lost in my efforts that I didn
’
t
notice our model slip in and settle onto the stool just a few feet away. I was
almost there. Just a few more shadows and I think I
’
d be able to put the sketch back into
my bag feeling satisfied.

Drawing
was a lot like writing
—
there
were often times when thoughts were blocked, but there were just as many when
they poured out of you freely, a cascade of inspiration. I
’
d learned to never cut short those
creative juices once they started flowing. If I did, I never knew just when
they would start back up again.

So
I was actually a little annoyed when Professor Seyforth instructed us to pull
out our drawing boards for today
’
s
model and put our current work away. My creation was so close to being
completed.

And
my heart was so close to stopping.

When
he swiveled on the stool, rotating to catch my eyes, I almost fell out of my
chair.

The
room spun.

My
head spun.

My
stomach rolled and the floor fell out from underneath me.

His
eyes were tight, his brow furrowed.

I
had no control over my own features. I had no idea what look was drawn onto my
face. It had to be one of shock. Maybe anger. Surprise and hesitation.

Leo
was unreadable, and he didn
’
t
blink. Not even once.

“
Class, I
’
d like to introduce you to our model
for the day, Leo Carducci.
”

Several
students muttered
“
Hi
Leo,
”
while others hardly acknowledged the man seated in the very center of the room.
At least they didn
’
t
acknowledge him as a person, only as a subject whose likeness they would spend
the next hour transforming into lead and paper. He didn
’
t mean anything to them.

He
meant something to me.

There
were so many things I wanted to do in this moment and none of them involved a
pencil and paper.

I
wanted to know why he put me on that plane.

I
wanted to know how he could go without any sort of contact
—
any sort of communication
—
and then one day
just show up in the middle of my college art class.

I
wanted to know how he could sit there and look at me the way he did without
speaking, without offering an explanation.

Then
I got my answers.

My
heart hammered as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt. I knew this course was
labeled Anatomic Drawing 201. That it involved anatomy. Leo was our model, so
today
’
s
assignment would involve his anatomy. It suddenly got unbearably hot in here.
Sweltering. I attempted a swallow, but my throat was dry and parched and my
tongue scraped along the inside of my mouth as though it were gravel.

I
was green with envy at the thought of his coworker
’
s lips on his straw. Leo
’
s naked body on the pages of thirty
of my peers didn
’
t
make me feel any better. My body trembled in frustrated, jealous anger. My
pencil nearly snapped in two within my clenched fist.

In
one agonizingly slow, almost painful swoop, Leo curled the fabric of his shirt
up and over his abdomen. Those rippled muscles peeked out from under the fabric
and I could feel my pulse rise, could feel my body tingle with familiarity. But
as he did so, he turned his back to me, almost walling me off. I don
’
t know why I was surprised by it
—
he
’
d emotionally walled me off already.
Of course he would continue to do it physically. Why would this be any
different? Could it be any different?

For
the first portion of the class, things stayed this way. Luckily, Leo only
removed his shirt before sitting down to his position on the stool. His jeans
still hung on his hips and so far my classmates only had the privilege of
seeing his carved chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and muscular biceps.

After
about thirty minutes, I had his back formed on the paper in front of me. The
sharp jut of his shoulder blades. The narrow taper of his waist and the curved
muscles that existed where most had love handles. I was almost able to convince
myself that it wasn
’
t
Leo, that it was just some other male model like all the others I
’
d drawn throughout the course. Just a
body. Nothing inside. But I
’
d
memorized that body, even in just the few times I
’
d seen it. I
’
d
felt
it. He was ingrained on my fingers. So it didn
’
t take long to transfer what had
already been burned into my mind onto paper. In fact, this was the easiest
assignment I
’
d
had all year.

So
when Professor Seyforth asked Leo to rotate his position so the other half of
the class could have the chance to draw his front side, I figured I was ready
for it.

But
I wasn
’
t.

Neither
was Leo.

I
wasn
’
t
ready for the deep slices cut into his skin, held together by thick black
thread like he was some child
’
s
torn teddy bear, hastily repaired by an unskilled seamstress.

Nothing
could have prepared me for the gruesome lines along his neck, across the
stomach, and under his left arm to match the scar he already bore on the other
side.

Five
total incisions spread across his upper half, some longer than others, some
more jagged and thick.

But
they were all fresh, the healing barely beginning. Each marking was highlighted
by a two-inch border, like a protective bandage that once pressed to the skin
had been quickly ripped off, leaving the stinging red flesh underneath.

He
’
d bought himself a few weeks, and
even thirty more minutes with his back to me during the first portion of class.
But Leo
’
s
time to hide had officially run out.

And
my time to be angry had completely vanished.

It
was all on display now. His cancer. His new scars. His emotion as the tears
slid down his jaw, dripping onto the fabric of his jeans. Leo pushed his palm
to his eyes, pressing them in like he could scold them away. But it didn
’
t do any good. They continued to slip
down his face, though I
’
m
not sure anyone noticed. They were all so busy replicating his body onto their
papers that so many failed to see the true meaning in their subject.

Professor
Seyforth challenged us to name our work. Well, I didn
’
t have much work to show yet since my
pencil still hung over my paper, but I had that title she
’
d requested. I had that theme because
my subject had challenged his viewer to see deeper into him. Right now, it was
almost as though I could even see through Leo. It was all so transparent.

I
understood.

He
didn
’
t
look away from me. The energy charged between his eyes and mine felt so strong
I wondered if anyone else could sense it or feel it. If somehow we created our
own vortex that would pull everything in because it seemed crazy to me that
they wouldn
’
t
be able to feel the connection between us. It was an intensity off the charts.

But
no, they couldn
’
t.
They weren
’
t
paying any attention to us. They had no clue.

Maybe
I
’
d been guilty of the same in the
past. Of drawing these models that filtered in and out of the studio as though
they were stone, forgetting there were more pieces to them, pieces that made
them human. They had pasts and presents and futures, but all I conveyed was the
fact they were made up of muscle and bone and flesh.

The
anatomy of a person was so much more than that.

Sure,
we walked around like statues, keeping up misleading
façade
s of perfection. Only
letting certain people in, picking and choosing who was safe and who wasn
’
t. Deciding who got to peel away
those superficial layers and see the mess inside. Though Leo sat in front of a
classroom full of students, I knew he was choosing me. I was the one he wanted
to let in. Yes, they could see his scars and could guess at what they might
mean, but no one really knew.