Drawn To You (7 page)

Heat spreads over my skin and down the length of my body. My toes and fingertips tingle, and I trace them over his jaw, down his chest, over his bared forearms. I imagine myself drawing on his skin, pulling out his true colors from the bone and muscle beneath.

He takes a gasping breath and deepens our kiss, parting my lips, soft and warm. My legs go wobbly and he supports me.

My shuttered heart is creaking open again and I’m not sure I can close it this time.

Ezra’s fingers work their way around to the front of my anorak and, in a lust-fueled fog, I fumble for the zipper near my throat and yank it down. His hand slips inside and brushes against my belly, his fingers tracing down until they find the exposed skin above my jeans. When he touches me there, the heat humming in my blood gathers in my lower belly.

A fire lights in me, and I panic and cringe away from the flames.

I gasp and push myself away, stumbling back. Now we’re a universe apart and my hands are already going numb from the sudden cold. My teeth chatter from my still-firing nerves as much as from the chill, and I zip my coat back up and cover my face with my hands.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I don’t know if he can even hear me.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t get hurt again. My heart won’t be able to take it. I’m not brave enough for this.

Ezra is composed as he approaches me, gently pulling my hands away from my face. The passion that drove him before is softer now, calmer. There’s still heat behind his eyes, but it’s tempered by worry.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. The post-art high is intense.”

I pull away from him and fold my arms around my center. His touch is dangerous for my resolve.

“I don’t know that it’s the art giving me a high,” I say, avoiding his eye and hoping my blush doesn’t show too much.

He swallows and puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. I expect to see his annoyance then, like with any other guy I’ve dated in the past, but it’s nowhere to be found.

“I can relate,” he says. “Being around you is learning how to paint. Incredible and terrifying and I feel like a more complete version of myself. It’s bringing out passion I didn’t know I had. I’m not about to mess that up. Whatever it is that you want out of this, I’m here for it.”

Tears burn behind my eyes and I look up to blink them away. “And if I don’t want anything at all?”

He bows his head, thinking. I can see the war inside him, as he tries to accept that possibility. “Then I’ll leave you alone. It’ll wreck me, but I’ll leave you be if you ask me to.”

I look past him to the painting, its vibrant colors shining in the moonlight.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” I say.

He gives me the slightest smile before going to pack up his paint cans. When he comes back, he reaches for me, but thinks better of it when I stiffen up.

“Come on, Autumn,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

T
he following morning
finds me buried in a blanket burrito of shame in my bed. I squeeze my eyes shut against the morning light and curse consciousness for reminding me what an absolutely ridiculous person I am.

What’s the matter with me?

I give in to the call of daylight and sit up, my comforter still wrapped around my shoulders. The drawings of Iris stare down at me and I run my fingers over her sketched curls. I’m tempted to ask her what she’d do if she were in my situation.

But Iris isn’t here, and besides, I already know what she’d do, and it makes me feel kind of sick.

Last night is crystal clear in my memory, and everything swirls inside my head, reminding me of the rush, the heat, the inevitable crash and burn. Ezra was incredible through it all. Not only did he create yet another painting that woke something inside me, but he understood when I shut down. Let’s be honest, I am far from a dream date. Anyone else would have washed their hands of me after that.
I
would have washed my hands of the whole affair after that.

And here I am on my day off, bundled up in bed and continuing to punish myself. I’m a mess and he’s amazing. What the hell does he see in me?

The smell of cinnamon and sugar wafts beneath my door and my mouth waters instantly. Despite how close I hold my cards close to my chest, Audrey’s still managed to learn that I love cinnamon toast. She’s drawing me out of my cave. Clever girl.

Part of me wants to resist, but the other part of me is demanding simple sugar right this second. After a brief internal battle, I decide eating my feelings isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Audrey singsongs to me as I shuffle into the kitchen in a tank top and pajama bottoms. She sets a plate down in front of me and grins like the Cheshire Cat. “You got in late last night.”

She steeples her fingers in front of her mouth, watching me expectantly and failing to hide her smile.

I pick up a piece of toast, take a bite, and intentionally chew very slowly so I can watch her squirm.

When I finally swallow, I say, “It’s not what you think. Nothing happened.”

“My ass nothing happened.” She hops up to sit on the counter by the breakfast bar and steals a piece from my plate. “If you don’t give me details, I’ll belt that song from
Wicked
that you hate until you relent.”

“Ugh, fine,” I groan. “Ezra and I went out last night. But like I said, nothing happened.”

She raises an eyebrow at me and starts humming the first few bars of the song.

I groan and cover my ears. “We kissed, okay? We kissed. Stop, for the love of all that is good in the world.”

Her humming ratchets into a high-pitched
eeeeee
sound and she says, “Was it a kiss…” She makes a so-so gesture with her hand. “… or was it a
kiss?
” She waggles her eyebrows.

I take another bite of my toast before responding. “The second one.”

She makes that
eeeeee
sound again.

I clamp my hand over my ears, almost wishing she’d go back to the show tunes. “Not that it matters,” I say. “It’s not going to happen again.”

I finish the toast and pick up my plate to take it to the sink.

“Oh no.” Audrey stops me with both hands on my shoulders. “What did you do?” she says with a glower.

I’m kind of offended she assumes it’s my fault, even though it’s true. “I didn’t do anything. We’re not right for each other, romantically speaking.” I sidestep around her. “I’m not on the market for a boyfriend, anyway.”

“God, Mia, I’m not encouraging you to go off and elope, but being around that guy is good for you.”

“How do you figure?” I mumble as I dump my plate in the sink.

“Honestly, I haven’t seen you out of your room this much in months. You smile to yourself when you think I’m not looking. You’re wearing actual colors instead of your usual gray-on-gray. You’re going outside for something other than work, for shit’s sake. He’s making you come alive, and I don’t think you should shut that out.”

I force a laugh and try to joke, “Should you really be giving me advice about my love life?”

She waves her hand in the air like she’s batting my words away. “Do as I say, not as I do. You don’t have to fall in love, that’s not what I mean. But I do think you should give this a real shot. He’s fun, he’s gorgeous, and he makes you smile. Plus, he has hot friends who you could introduce to your fantastically supportive roommate, just saying.”

Audrey’s words are getting to me, so I pick up the sponge and start washing things. She doesn’t leave, though, so after a while I sigh and say, “I’m too broken and boring for him.”

“Not a chance,” Audrey says. “You’re book-smart, funny, just the right amount of weird… and don’t think I haven’t noticed you dragging around those sketchbooks, even if you’ll never let me see them. You’ve got intrigue seeping out of your pores.”

I clam up. After spending months studiously avoiding compliments, all this at once has my systems overloaded. Gently, Audrey continues, “I don’t know what happened before we met, Mia, and I’m not going to pry, but it was obviously something that left a scar. Scars don’t change the fact that you’re worth knowing, though.”

I sniff and rub my nose with my wrist to hide the fact that she made me tear up. “What did I do to land such a great roommate?” I ask.

“You answered the ad,” she laughs. “And it helps that you’re cool enough to get invited to The Catacombs.”

I scoop up a bunch of bubbles and blow them at her. She squeals and returns fire.

S
ince it’s
my day off and the sun’s actually shining, I decide to get out of my dark room and soak up some rare Vitamin D straight from the source. I tuck my newest sketchbook into my bag and catch the bus, thinking of last night. I stay on until Pearl District comes into view.

The district is fully alive in the daylight, despite it being a workday for most people. I hang a left and walk past a few boutique shops and galleries. My favorite gallery is the Modern Art Gallery, but it’s not located here. Too bad, since I’m tempted to pay it a visit. Maybe next day off.

I make my way to the nearby park and set up next to the bubbling fountain. A family plays nearby. Two little girls and a puppy chase each other across the grass, hiding behind bushes and pouncing out at one another. The next breath I take is painful, working its way around the lump in my throat. I flip open my sketchbook and let my heart spill onto the page.

Thirty minutes later, the drawing shows the form of the older sister curled around the younger, protecting her from the thorns growing up around them both.

“Daddy, look up there!” one of the girls calls. “What’s that painting?”

The father says, “It’s a mural, I think.”

Ezra’s new painting stretches high above the park. I feel a jolt seeing it, remembering the rush of last night, the pressure of his hand against my waist. Seeing it in the daylight is literally seeing it in a new light – it’s stunningly beautiful, the colors popping more than they could in the dark. Like his other painting on the bookstore building, I’m finding new things about it that I missed on the first pass. The shadows curling around the two boys are filled with color. In the moonlight, I hadn’t noticed the shades of gold and midnight blue that braid through the darkness. It casts a glow around the subjects, even in their fear and dread. How does Ezra
do
that? The mural shows sorrow and joy simultaneously, twining into each other, multiplying their beauty.

The nuance of it catches in my chest. Maybe there’s something to that idea. Maybe I don’t have to keep my sorrow wrapped so tightly that it blocks out joy.

Maybe I
can
be brave.

I put down my sketchbook and pull out my phone, bringing up Ezra’s recent texts. They’re all pretty tame. Some mild flirting on his end, none on mine.

I chew on my lip and think maybe it’s time to change that.

It takes me fifteen minutes to work up the nerve. Even once I start typing, I feel my brain fizzle out. Seriously, what are words? I keep writing and deleting ridiculous texts along the lines of “did it hurt when you fell off the hottie wagon” and “you have an awesome face.” Finally, I bite the bullet with a simple and very banal “Hey, what are you doing?”

The text goes out into the ether and I can’t take it back. Oh God. I bite my lip and watch as it’s declared delivered. A moment later, it’s marked as read... He doesn’t answer right away. My heart hammers in my chest as I try to wrench my gaze away from it. Who the hell thought read receipts were a good idea? I put my phone down and try to clear my mind, but when I look up, all I see is his mural on the wall across from me and it only makes it worse. This was such a bad idea.

My phone chimes at me and I snatch it up. Subtle.

“Sorry, working. On my break now. What’s up?”

I sit there with my thumbs poised above the screen for too long. Now what do I say? I didn’t think this through very well.

“Not much,” I send back. “Where do you work?”

Should I already know that? I feel like I should already know that. God, I’m bad at this.

“I’m a server at Toad In The Hollow,” he answers, and I recognize the name. It’s one of those super trendy small plates and mixology places. He follows it up with a second text: “Why, you planning on stopping by?”

“Depends on whether or not you have a cute server uniform,” I respond. Nailed it. I fight back a ridiculous giggle. I can’t believe how cheesy I’m being.

I can’t believe I’m openly
flirting.
Rust practically flakes off my flirt muscles, but at least they’re working.

Ezra apparently can’t, either, because his next message says, “Who is this and what have you done with Mia?”

“Mia’s just fine. She’s wondering if you’re working tomorrow night.”

“Nope, lunch shift tomorrow.”

Half of my brain tells me to cut and run before I do something stupid. The other half keeps replaying that kiss on the rooftop last night, an endless loop of his insistent lips and the gentle scratch of his beard against my cheek. The latter half is much more appealing.

Time to do something bold.

I take a deep breath and send another text. “That’s good, because she also wanted you to know that
Mr. Smith Goes To Washington
is playing at Cinema 21 tomorrow, and she loves that movie.”

There’s a long pause and I’m sure I ruined it. He’s probably telling his fellow servers what a dork I am right now.

My phone vibrates and a new message pops up on the screen.

“Checked the show time. Pick you up at 7 and we’ll eat there?”

I suck in a breath and hold it. He asked me on a date. Or maybe… did I ask him? Should I respond right away or make him wait a minute? What are the rules?

No. Screw the rules.

I respond, “Sounds like a plan, that’s the end of my shift at Pages & Stages.”

“See you then, Autumn,” he messages. “Looking forward to it. I’ll brush up on my filibustering skills in the meantime so I can reach Mr. Smith’s level.”

My grin could outshine the sun.

“Until tomorrow, Summer,” I reply.

I put down my phone and pick up my sketchbook, turning to a fresh page.