Drawn To You (9 page)

A
fter someone’s
seen you completely lose it on a public street right before your first real date, you can’t expect them to pretend that it never happened.

That’s what I keep telling myself as I stuff another spoonful of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia into my mouth. I’m wrapped in three different blankets on the couch and binge watching
New Girl
like it’s going out of style. It seems like the thing to do. After all, it’s not like I’m going to be going on any more dates, probably ever.

I swallow my ice cream and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I haven’t worn my contacts in about three days, ever since that night with Ezra. He hasn’t called or come by the bookshop, and I can’t blame him one bit. After all, I told him I couldn’t do it. I thought I wanted this. Didn’t I?

On screen, Jess is crying into an entire box of tissues in her pajamas and I can relate so hard it hurts.

Or maybe that’s just the ice cream induced indigestion settling in.

The front door opens and I hear the click of Audrey’s heels down the hall as she comes into the living room, home from the work. She looks like an entirely different person when she’s dressed for the office. Her hair’s up in a French twist and she’s wearing a pencil skirt and a honest-to-goodness blazer. She sighs when she sees me.

“Isn’t that the exact same place I left you this morning?” she says.

“Probably.” I’d shrug, but there are too many blankets weighing me down.

She checks her watch and shoves me over on the couch. I don’t turn to look at her, so she yanks a blanket off my head and tugs my ponytail.

“Ow. Cut it out,” I mutter.

“You haven’t showered in three days. I’m not even sure you’ve brushed your teeth. It’s gross. Your manager at the bookstore is probably freaking out.”

She’s not wrong. When I came into my shift yesterday, I thought Sampson might be getting the vapors. He said something about needing to lie down. He also asked what the hell happened that made me go from passably fashionable to mopey grungeball in the space of a few days, but I blew him off.

I spoon another bit of ice cream into my mouth. It’s going pretty runny.

“It’s actually better for your microbiome not to shower every day,” I say. “It helps your digestion.”

Audrey takes the carton from me and gets up to put it in the freezer, ignoring my feeble “hey.”

“If you’re concerned about your digestion, maybe you should lay off the all-ice cream diet,” she says.

I scowl at her from over the back of the couch. She crosses her arms and pops her hip, looking at me like a concerned guidance counselor.

“Would you talk to me?” she says. “Everything seemed like it was going really well with --”

I cut her off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “Then will you at least consider coming out with me and the girls for drinks at The Cantina? It’ll be good for you.”

“Now?” I ask, incredulously.

Audrey purses her lips. “I can give you some time to shower first—”

“No. I’m really not up for it,” I say. Then I slump back down on the cushions, my eyes fixed on the television.

Audrey sighs behind me. Softly, she says, “Whenever you’re ready, you can talk to me, Mia. I’m here.”

I bite my lip and hope she’s not waiting for an affirmation, but I don’t have to worry. After a beat, she sighs again and leaves. The front door clicks shut. I consider getting up to go dig the ice cream back out of the freezer and ultimately decide it’s not worth extracting myself from my blanket cocoon. The pint probably needs a few more hours to harden up again, anyway.

Unfortunately, after three more episodes, my bladder doesn’t give me a choice anymore.

Since I’m already in the bathroom, I decide that I probably should brush my teeth as well, if only to remove the jank coating on my tongue. I really look at myself in the mirror and frown. My hair’s knotted in its ponytail and microbiome or not, I definitely smell pretty ripe. I vaguely recall the grief counselor my parents made me see before I took off for Portland recommending that I take steps to treat my body well so that my mind could follow. Or something. I turn on the shower and let the water warm.

After I’m scrubbed clean and have my contacts in, I sit down in front of the vanity in my bedroom to get the knots out of my hair. I let my mind wander while I comb. My eyes are unfocused as I zone out, and if I don’t look directly at the mirror, I could swear the reflection is Iris peering back out at me.

Tightness behind my breastbone pulls at me sharply and I close my eyes, humming “Killing Me Softly” by The Fugees. Iris had a thing for 90s hip-hop. She made me listen to it all the time.

I miss her so much that it’s a constant ache, like an old injury that never really stops hurting. You learn to put it into the back of your mind until the weather turns, and suddenly the pain cuts through you, reminding you it’s always going to be there. Iris wasn’t supposed to die before me.

When I first got to Portland, every time I got a Skype notification or a text, I expected it to be her. It took months of me refusing to answer for anyone to stop trying. Eventually all the communication dwindled until only my parents were left, calling dutifully every two days. That was fine. I owed Kimber better, probably, but she has a life of her own to worry about. She doesn’t need to deal with my shit. I wonder if she’s still with the same girl.

I comb the last of the tangles out of my wet curls and twist my hair over one shoulder. Since I’ve already gone this far, I might as well put on something besides yoga pants. My drawers are nearing empty – I really need to do laundry – but I manage to find a long tunic and some leggings. They’re like pajamas that you can wear outdoors without getting pitied stares.

Once I finish dressing, I look at the drawings of Iris on the wall. They’re watching me, smiling, laughing, crying. I pull in a deep breath and hold it in my lungs until it’s warm, then release it.

I’m so tired of being haunted.

The first piece to come off the wall is the one of the both of us watching the salmon run through Puget Sound when we were kids. The water sprays around us and the fish leap through the air, all pink and green from the spawning. Next come the ones with her sad eyes, then those of her laughing. As I pull each drawing down, I feel the memory seep into my skin along with the graphite and charcoal. Their job is to remind me, but do I need reminding when the tragedy never escapes me?

They’re too personal to let anyone else see, and people have been getting too close lately. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds their way past my door. When Iris watches me from these pages, she’s just mine, exactly the way I want to remember her.

Exactly the way I need to remember her.

Ever since Damien showed up at the shop, my mind has been repeating the night I lost her, playing and replaying like a broken record. She never should have been in that car with him. I swallow the lump in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the stack of drawings in my hand.

A clatter at my window startles me so badly that I almost drop my pages everywhere. I ignore it at first, but then it happens again. And again. It’s too rhythmic to be accidental. As I watch, a pebble strikes one of the panes and I realize someone’s throwing rocks at my window like I’m in a teen rom-com.

I slide the drawings under my bed before pulling open my blinds and opening the window.

Far down below, Ezra grins up at me and my heart leaps to my throat.

“Good,” he says. “I got the right window this time. The woman a few doors down isn’t super happy with me right now, sorry to say.”

I gape at him. Stupidly, the first thing that comes out of my mouth is, “This isn’t the 90s, Ezra. You could have texted me.”

Ezra looks bemused. “I did,” he says. “About twenty times.”

He’s right. I look back at my neglected phone guiltily. I’m grasping at straws here. “What… how did you know which apartment I’m in?”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, the hint of a laugh lighting up in his eyes. “I may have called in a favor from your roommate. She gave me her number in case I needed it.”

“Audrey doesn’t give her number out,” I say automatically.

“I guess she thinks you’re worth it,” he responds. “I can relate.”

Silence stretches between us like a too-tight guitar string. I’m so glad to see him, but simultaneously embarrassed about how I acted the last time we were together. Not that I could help it exactly, but that sort of freak-out is hard to overlook.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He raises one of those flawless dark eyebrows and it’s so goddamn charming I can’t stand it.

“I missed out on spending some quality time with you the other night and I’d like to make up for it. Can I come up?” he says.

A flush spreads across my chest and up my neck. I really ought to say no, to set him free. Instead, I hear myself say, “Yeah, okay. I’m in 240A.”

“Be right up.”

I pull the window closed and consider trying to put on some quick makeup, but I don’t really have the energy. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He probably wants to get some closure and end whatever this is on good terms. Seems like the kind of thing he’d want to do – be everyone’s best friend until the bitter end.

I’m tying my hair into a bun at the base of my neck when there’s a soft knock at the door. I close the door to my bedroom tight behind me as I go to answer.

He’s standing there bright as the morning, his tanned skin practically glowing in the dim light of the hallway. I doubt there’s ever been a more attractive combination of friendly brown eyes and dimples in the history of the world. His hair is tied back like mine and he’s wearing a blue and green button-down flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks good.

Understatement of the year, Mia.

Vaguely, I realize I probably look the opposite of good. But, hey, at least I’m clean.

Ezra leans against the doorframe. “Could I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I step aside and tuck an escaped curl behind my ear. He smells like wood smoke as he brushes past me.

He looks around our living room, taking in the bright fabrics we’ve hung from the walls to give the room some color. I suddenly find myself embarrassed, worried about what he’ll think of our decorations. His aesthetic is so effortlessly cool, so perfect. Ours is…well…

His eyes linger on the ceramic chicken Audrey insists on displaying on our breakfast bar, but he doesn’t ask questions. It was apparently a gift from her grandmother, and she loves the thing. I feel like it stares at me while I eat.

“Huh,” Ezra says. “This place is nice.”

I lean against the bar and laugh under my breath. “It’s affordable.”

Once again, an uncomfortable quiet fills the room, and Ezra clears his throat to break it. He seems to be building up to something. I tense up, waiting for the “I can’t handle your baggage” speech.

“I came here because I’m worried about you,” he finally says, running his fingers along my upper arm. The pressure is delicate, as he swirls light circles against my skin, like he’s trying to pull the tension out of me. “I want to know what happened the other night, but if you’re not ready to talk about it, I’m okay with that. I’d really like to keep you in my life. You’re so… raw. I’ve never met anybody more real, definitely not anyone who keeps
me
so real.”

I hear his words, but don’t process them. They’re so far from what I expected that I can’t wrap my mind around what he’s telling me. That he doesn’t care about how broken I am. That he wants to stay.

“Your authenticity is a work of art. It’s honest, so vulnerable and strong. It’s beautiful.” Ezra’s gaze is steady. “Whenever you’re ready to share, I’ll be here.”

Warmth blooms in my belly. “You’ll be here?”

“Did you think you scared me off?”

“Well,” I say. “Yeah. Not many people would stick around after that.”

“I already told you.” He holds his hands out to his sides and gives me a charming one-sided smirk. “I’m not many people.”

Most people would take this opportunity to seal the deal with a kiss. That’s how these things usually play out, after all, isn’t it? But I surprise us both by jumping up to pull Ezra down into a hug. Leave it to me to dork out and bear hug my very hot and very willing make out partner.

“Thank you,” I manage to say.

“I meant what I said. Whenever you’re ready to tell me what’s going on, I’ll listen.” He straightens back up and looks me in the eye. The warmth inside me starts to heat up.

Ezra reaches up to tug on my loose curl. “We never did get to catch that movie. What do you say we make up for it?”

“What?” I say. “Now?”

“Sure. I hear there’s a new exhibit down at the Modern Art Gallery. Want to check it out?”

If something better could have come out of his mouth just now, I’m not sure what it might have been. Maybe “I brought an IPA variety pack, a litter of puppies, and a unicorn for your own personal enjoyment?” Nope, not even that wins out.

“I love the MAG,” I admit.

His devilish grin is back. “Your roommate might have mentioned something.”

I look down at his arm and trace my fingers over the fish in his tattoo. “Are you sure you want to deal with all this?” I gesture at myself. “I’m kind of a mess.”

He shrugs. “We’re all a mess. At least you’re honest about it. So? What do you say?”

My mind’s still reeling from this unexpected turn of events. I was so positive he’d bolt that I didn’t consider that he might stay. I didn’t let myself imagine a future with him, let alone one more date. Should I risk this? He’s seen me totally cracked open. He’s seen the pulpy mess underneath. And despite it all, he’s still here.

When I look at him, at his fiery warm eyes and his incredible openness to the world, at the strength that radiates from him and his handsome, assured expression, I know my answer.

He’s worth it.

“Give me twenty minutes to find something gallery-worthy in Audrey’s closet,” I say.

He runs his thumb along the line of my jaw. “Take all the time you need. I’m not in a hurry.”