Heart Thaw (24 page)

“I don’t know. These couple of weeks, that was what they were supposed to be for. I was supposed to be figuring things out. Now? I just want to leave and—”

“Hope the mess will go away?” There’s a sneer in Ella’s voice. “How the hell do you get the reputation as the responsible one? You need to stop doing that. You think it’s easy for everyone else to face shit, Sade? Here’s a newflash; it’s not. But you’ve got to face things. Grow up and stop running from everything.”

“What if I fuck things up?” I ask, my voice a tight whisper.

“What’s the difference? You fuck things up anyway. At least make a plan and attempt
not
to fuck things up for once. Sure, it may not work the way you think, but it’s better than just letting shit spiral out, right?”

“What do you think I should do?”

There’s a lot of irony in me asking my baby sister, who I’ve often treated like a total screw-up, for advice.

She bites her lip, then hops out of bed, letting a cold blast of icy air shoot under the covers. After a few seconds of rifling through her exploding sock and underwear drawer, she pulls out a gold box with a red bow, discarding a sparkly thong that hangs off one corner.

“Antonia and I were going to hang out today like it was our own little Christmas. You know, exchange gifts, make out to Sarah McLaughlin’s Christmas album, feed each other jam print cookies.”

Her mouth curls down hard, like she’s trying not to cry. I reach out, but she stuffs the box in my hands before I can touch her.

“What’s this?” I ask.

She crosses her arms and shakes her head.

“My idiotic attempt at romance. I put a lot of thought into this gift, just like she asked me to. Because, apparently, I’m kind of a lame gift giver. But now that we’re broken up and I’m going to spend all day crying to Wham!’s ‘Last Christmas,’ it would make me feel happy to know someone is enjoying my thoughtfulness.”

I don’t want to open the gift. It’s so sad, it seems almost jinxed. But what am I supposed to do? I tear the wrapping that was meant for Antonia away. My sister isn’t even looking at me.

“A voucher for a winter semester class at Caspar Community College?”

The Triple C was the big joke of my graduating class, the place you ended up if you didn’t get accepted anywhere else. Of course, now that I look back, we were a bunch of entitled pricks. It’s a really solid community college, and I think of a dozen former classmates who boasted they’d never set foot there and are now struggling at minimum wage jobs.

   “It’s for modern dance, because Antonia is totally into that but never had the chance to do, like, a real class in it,” she says, her face red with shame she had no business feeling. “Of course, you probably don’t want to do dance. But the lady at the registrar said there were other things with openings. Some art classes. Anyway, you can’t sit around all day here, and you love school.”

“An art class would be great.” I clear my throat. “It’s a fantastic gift. Are you sure you don’t want to—”

“No,” she interrupts. “I mean, of course I do because I’m a sad little masochist, but that’s what you’re here for, big sis. To save me from myself, right?”

I put the gift certificate down and pull her in for a tight hug she only lets me hold for a second before she starts squirming.

“I’m happy to tell you what a screw-up you are, as long as you do the same for me.”

She nods and laughs.

“I think I actually like you better when you’re screwing things up. Kinda takes down that whole ‘stick up your ass’ vibe you usually have going on a notch or two.” She presses her lips together. “Go get a shower. You stink and we should both sleep. I’m going to need to be well rested to survive the next few days booze free.”

I walk out of Ella’s room with the box clutched in my hand, but I stop at the doorway.

“Hey.” I wait for her to look up. “Thanks.”

She grins. “You’re welcome, egg head.”

Chapter Sixteen

Sitting in our big, quiet house in the depressing aftermath of our first Christmas without Eileen doesn’t exactly start my whole ‘coming back home’ experiment on a great foot. Georgia, Ella, and Mom only have a day or two before they go back to work. We spend it eating the mountains of cookies Mom baked and watching old sappy movies. I think we do it mostly to avoid having to talk or feel or anything...we just sit and stare at the screen, giving our brains and hearts a break.

I don’t call Trent, because what would I even say? I don’t even know where we stand, and I’m not sure I have the emotional energy to deal with the whole complicated mess.

He makes lots of excuses about work being crazy to avoid stopping by. Home Depot is always packed with panicked survivalists when the forecast calls for snow. His mysterious college job means he will also be around at Triple C this winter break.

It’s almost a reason not to go, but Ella tips the scales with her unapologetic honesty.

“If you don’t get out the damn door, I’m going to find you covered in cobwebs in the basement at the end of the month. I thought this was supposed to be about figuring shit out. You can’t do that if you don’t take some risks.”

I know Ella is right. I know there are a million things I need to do before I petrify and become some old biddie living with a thousand cats twining around my ankles.

Or maybe just living all alone with my dead plants. I don’t even really like cats.

So I shower, get dressed, drive to the Triple C, and meet with a very nice lady at the registrar who gives me a list of art classes with openings. I want to ask if she knows who the instructors are, but I resist humiliating myself. There are five or six classes with spots open. What are the chances I’ll sign up for one of the ones he teaches?

It doesn’t stop me from looking nervously over my shoulder that evening when I set up my freshly purchased supplies at an empty easel, half dreading, half hoping to run into Trent at my advanced life drawing class.

“Sadie!” I hear a jolly male voice that’s so familiar…

“Mr. Jeffers?”

I look at my high school art teacher, who’s in stiffly cuffed jeans and a cardigan with elbow patches. His thick tortoiseshell glasses and greaser ducktail make this whole 50s mishmosh vibe that’s definitely way cooler than his Dockers and polos were back when I was at Newton High.

“It’s so nice to see you. I thought you were still at Newton.”

He holds his arms out and I walk into them. We hug, and I think back on how awesome his classes were, how full of life and passion he always was. I also reflect on how happy he looks now—way happier than he ever looked as a high school teacher.

“I escaped the asylum two years after your class graduated. I’ve been working at the community college since I got my masters tied up, and I couldn’t be happier.” He sighs and smiles, then lets the sides of his mouth dip down in a frown. “Sadie, I thought you were at Kensington. Please tell me you’re still at Kensington.”

He tries so hard not to look disappointed for me, I want to kiss him for being so sweetly worried.

“I am,” I assure him, proud and guilty about my college bragging rights all at once. “My sister got me life drawing classes for Christmas, and they were running this section while I’m home on winter break, so I figured, why not dust off my sketch pad?”

He throws a hand over his chest and slumps forward with relief.

“Thank God. I always knew you were going to escape this one horse town.” He glances at two tight-lipped older hippies scowling our way and amends, “Not that there’s anything wrong with settling down here and never leaving. We’ve actually got our own little art niche growing strong here. Have you seen the trestle?” he asks in a hushed voice.

I wonder if Mr. Jeffers knows it’s Trent’s work, but I doubt it. He looks at me like he’s hoping I might fill him in on some insider knowledge.

“I saw it on my way into town. It’s breathtaking.”

His face falls with disappointment.

“Isn’t it gorgeous? I wish we could figure out who painted it. The artist leaves enough work behind that you’d think
somebody
would have caught him—or her, could be a ‘her’ of course—by now. Whoever it is, I’m just so thankful he
or
she is giving this town a little life.” He gives me a quick wink. “You were always hanging with the artsy bunch. Keep your eyes peeled for any of your old classmates doing their thing out and about in town.”

I want to ask him if the rest of the town feels like this is ‘art.’ Mr. Jeffers has never been the most conventional guy, and our little town has enough puritanical people that it’s almost guaranteed there’s a committee or two already planning a townhall anti-graffitti meeting and probably a vigilante group armed with scrub brushes and buckets of soapy water.

The thought of Trent’s work being scrubbed away sends a chill through me.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” I promise Mr. Jeffers before I head to back to my easel to finish setting up.

Mr. Jeffers continues to flit around the room, talking and hugging with a lightness he never had when he taught high school. I remember the kids picking on his lisp and corny enthusiasm back then, and, on top of that hellishness, the administration was coming down hard on the arts because of budget cuts. The students staged a fairly ineffective protest in front of the school, followed by a way more successful walk-out.

I recall Mr. Jeffers constantly looking like he was nursing an ulcer, and I still associate the smell of the art room with Pepto and paints.

He looks so much more in his element here, so much happier. That makes me happy, and it’s a sign of hope. If a person as eccentric as Mr. Jeffers could find his place here, there might be hope for a weirdo like me.

There’s an electricity to the class I didn’t count on. I figured it would be a few earnest art wannabes, but these people seem to be buzzing about the first session, and I get caught in the current of their intensity right away.

Mr. Jeffers claps his hands together to get our attention and goes straight into a mini-lesson about the play of light and darkness. He says that this class will be unique because we’ll be doing our work in dimmed light, with candles. He says it will be an experience and a challenge.

There are so many titters hidden behind hands and excited elbow nudges. Maybe it’s just holiday buzz, because, though art is fun and exciting and all that, I can’t grasp why everyone would be so jazzed about a few little—

“Oh my God.”

I don’t even realize I’ve said the words out loud until the girl next to me bites the end of her pencil, squeezes her eyes shut, and nods.

“Mmm. Honey, I know
exactly
what you mean.”

Her sigh disappears in a sea of sighs. I don’t want to stare where they all do, and I don’t want any of them staring either. But my jealousy doesn’t matter much in this class, where we’re being told to focus our artistic eyes on our subject.

Our long limbed, sloe-eyed, nicely muscled subject.

The subject who’s staring me down like he’s daring me to walk out. Like he wants me to say all the things in this crowded room I was too chicken to say when our bodies were wrapped around each other in the privacy of his bed and then, later, the basement.

The subject I watched leave in another woman’s car on Christmas and haven’t been able to get out of my head since.

The subject who I’ve been told to stay away from by everyone in my life—including me—but who I can’t seem to stop drawing closer and closer to, intentionally and by total happy accident.

Moth to flame.

Match to gasoline.

Why are all my metaphors about combustion and things turning to ash?

Because this is a catastrophically bad idea. I keep promising I’ll stay far away, and here I am, about to watch as he—

Oh sweet, holy Lord.

He drops his robe and the sighs in the room practically blow out the candles Mr. Jeffers has carefully lit and placed on surfaces at all different heights.

“My husband gave me a voucher for this class for Christmas. Best. Present. Ever,” a smiling forty-something woman behind me whispers to her neighbor, who giggles back.

And I was worried about Trent
teaching
this class. I’m an ass. Also I swear I can hear the universe laughing so hard, it’s probably pissing its pants.

Well played, fates. Well played.

“Thank you, Mr. Toriello, for giving your time to our class,” Mr. Jeffers says, bowing low like he’s some serf and Trent is the lord of the damn manor.

God, he
looks
like the lord of the manor. All tight, sweet muscles and cocky arrogance emanating from those green eyes.

Cocky.
Just repeating the word in my head makes me blush. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Now while you’re working, I want you to focus on shadow. Light and dark, the contrast that draws out the muscles, that deepen skin tones—”

Mr. Jeffers keeps talking, but I’m just trying to get my hands to stop shaking. It’s not exactly easy with Trent refusing to move his eyes from me. I glance around to see if anyone else notices, but everyone is busy sketching.

I should get to work.

I pick up the charcoal with shaky fingers. I had to buy new because I couldn’t find my old set. I love the weight of the stick in my hands and it makes me wonder why I don’t draw anymore—I used to fill up hours and sketchpads, and I wasn’t half bad.

It was actually one of the first things Trent and I bonded over. I remember lying on the floor with him, sketchpads all around us, showing off techniques, reaching over to shade or highlight or add detail to each other’s work. He was a senior in high school by then, and I was already in college, but I noticed him.

Like the way his shoulders would bump against mine when we were too close...because of how broad they were. And how his fingers were so delicate but so strong. The way he laughed, the way he got excited about what I was doing and his enthusiasm when he showed me new techniques.

It was one of the first times it dawned on me that Trent Toriello was an attractive guy and didn’t exist solely as Georgia’s brother.

He’s Georgia’s brother. He’s Eileen’s son.

Why do those observations feel the need to fly through my brain just as I’m sketching the very perfect curve of his ass? No one who isn’t an underwear model has any business with an ass that looks that good.

That ass was in my bed and wanted to stay there. I kicked that ass out into the cold, and that ass went home in another, smarter woman’s car.

That ass is an ass I’ve known since it was covered in a baby diaper.

I toss down my chalk and pull off my sweater, push my hair behind my ears, and get working, with more focus than before. When I glance up to make sure I have the jut of his elbow just right, I notice that the smug look on this face has been replaced by something else.

Something twisted and uncomfortable.

He gives me a look—a quick, furious flick of his eyes—then turns his gaze to the side, finally breaking his never-ending stare. My head is so wrapped up in my sketch, I can’t connect the dots at first. When I do, I realize that the tank I have on under my sweater is very tight.

And very low cut.

And leaves very little to the imagination.

I suddenly wonder what Trent would do if he,
ahem
, reacted to me up there in front of everyone. I’m turned-on and aggravated and flattered all at once. I yank the sweater back on, not because I think he’s actually going to get all hot and bothered in public, but because I might have to fistfight one of these ladies if, on some off chance, it did happen.

I’ve seen him in all his considerable glory, up-close and personal. It’s not a sight I’d willingly share with anyone else.

He focuses on staring at the wall across the room, and I try my best to focus on drawing what I see, doing my best to disconnect from the fact that what I’m looking at is Trent.

Naked, gorgeous Trent.

Before I know it, Mr. Jeffers announces we have ten minutes left. There are groans and sighs from all over the room, as the lady-babies try to deal with the fact someone’s taking away their eye candy. I finish up Trent’s left foot, which was giving me a hell of a time.

Thank God. As good-looking as Trent is, no guy’s feet are all that sexy, and drawing his toes was a good way for me to cool down after my fevered ass sketch.

“Thank you so much Mr. Toriello,” Mr. Jeffers finally says, handing Trent a robe. “As always, it was an honor to have you here.”

Trent smiles politely as he slips it on and knots the tie around his waist before any of the rubberneckers get a peek.

“Anytime. Thank you for having me in your class.”

He doesn’t give me so much as a backward glance.

I have
no business
being upset, but I guess I figure if he was okay staring at me during the entire class, he could at least swing by and say ‘hello.’

“Sadie, this is wonderful. Have you been taking classes at Kensington?”