Levi's Blue: A Sexy Southern Romance (24 page)

CHAPTER 23

LEVI

IT REPLAYS over and over and over in my head.  The look on Evie’s face. The disbelief.  The betrayal.  The hurt.

Her words, her eyes, her expression, the one that looks like I stabbed her in the chest again and again, and just kept on stabbing, is burned into my brain.

I roll out of bed, propping my elbows on my knees and dropping my head into my hands. Another night I won’t be able to sleep. I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time since the night I spent with Evie curled against my side in a hotel room in New Orleans.

I get up and throw on some clothes, make my way downstairs to the street, to the wide open space.  I feel like I’m suffocating in my apartment.  Memories, regrets…they haunt me.  Smother me when I try to sleep.

The cool New York night with its bustling sounds and glowing sky puts its arms around me as I start to jog.  It only took me two days of being back home to realize that physical exhaustion is the only way I can get some rest, the only way I can escape visions of Evie. 

Laughing. 

Coming. 

Crying.

Those images dance through my head as I run. Harder, faster, I push myself, reveling in the way my lungs ache.  Takes my mind off the ache in my chest, the one that says I screwed up the best thing to ever happen to me and I don’t know how to make it right.  Or even if I can.

I pound down the street, the muscles of my legs stinging as I force them to speed up.  The lights that pass me are a blur, like the last ten days.  A blur of this inescapable feeing of emptiness mixed with rage over what Julianne did.  If only she’d waited, this might’ve gone differently.  She genuinely thought that with Evie out of my life, I’d want her back.

She doesn’t know me at all.

I feel like no one really does. No one except Evie.

She brought out something in me. Something
real
. Around her, I’m the
me
I want to be. 

She also made me feel things, things I’ve never felt before.  This desire to make her smile and laugh, to make her happy, that overtook every other desire in my life.  Everything else has taken a back seat to her because nothing feels right without her. I didn’t realize I wasn’t whole until I came home by myself, until I came home to a life I have no interest in.

It’s as plain as the nose on my face—my life is shit without her.

I let out a growl, pumping my arms and legs harder, harder, harder. I tried to find Julianne when I left Evie’s.  For a reckoning. But she’s gone.  She had enough sense to get the hell away from me, at least for the time being. She obviously thinks I’ll get over this.

Again, she doesn’t know me at all.

I went to see her father. Even he wouldn’t tell me where she is. I explained to him what she did, and why. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned that she’d targeted me or hurt Evie.  His only advice to me was to let it lie or she’d likely go through with the rest of her threat, the one where she tells the world that Evie’s a fake.  It didn’t matter to him that Evie
isn’t
a fake. Far from it. It didn’t matter to him that she’s innocent in all this. It didn’t matter to him that Julianne could ruin her life.  All he did was shrug and give me a flippant, “Julianne doesn’t like rejection.  None of the Pines do.”

That was his way of telling me that he wasn’t going to help me because I dumped his daughter.  I’m guessing she told him I’d strung her along for the last decade and then up and decided to fall in love with someone else. No one gives a damn that I didn’t do it on purpose, that I didn’t plan it that way.

But that’s what happened.

I
did
fall in love with Evie.

I’m
still
in love with Evie.

I just have no idea what the hell to do about it.

She’d be much better off without me in her life, I’m sure. I’ve brought her nothing but pain and humiliation, even though that’s the last thing I wanted.  If I was half the man I’d like to think I am, I’d stay away from her.  Let it lie.  Give Julianne no reason to come after her and give Evie no reason to hurt anymore.

I slow to a stop, heart thumping, lungs heaving and I walk across the street to Central Park.  I stop just inside it. I close my eyes and suck in a breath through my nose, taking apart all that I smell, wondering what Evie would find in the air. I listen, too, noting the honking, the sirens, the voices.  Then I open my eyes. I take in the trees at night, the color of the sky, the tall buildings and the hotels across the street.  It’s a beautiful town in its own frenetic way. It’s been home for a long time.  But tonight…now…since Evie, it’s just…empty.  Everything is.  My life, my home, my heart—they’re just hollow places I used to know. I don’t even want to be here anymore.

The only place I want to be is where Evie is.

And it’s the one place I’m not welcome.

I walk back to my apartment, the cold much colder than it was when I left, my legs, arms, and face numb. It would be nice if I could feel that numb
everywhere,
to get away from this damned ache for the woman who hates me.  But I’m not that lucky.

It’s as I’m unlocking the door and stepping into my living room, greeted by the giant self-portrait of Evie, that I realize who I am.  I’m a great businessman. I’m the son of a senator.  I’m a New Yorker.  What I’m
not
is strong enough to walk away.  Not yet.  Not like this. 

I’m nowhere near the man I want to be. Not like this. Not without her.

But who I also am is determined. I have to find a way to make Evie see what she means to me, to help her understand that though I didn’t save her when she needed it,
she
saved
me. 
And that I won’t rest until she knows that I love her and that all I want is to make her happy. And I know I can.  I know if she’ll give me a chance, I can make her happy. I can’t change the past, but I can devote the rest of my life to making up for it.

If only she’ll give me a chance.

I throw some random shit into a bag and call the airlines. I’m going back to Shreveport.

I’m going back to Evie.

CHAPTER 24

EVIE

OVER THE course of the last two weeks, my life has changed quite a bit.

On the work front, my career has exploded.  The sale of those seven paintings opened some sort of floodgate, and now I don’t have a single piece of art left from that showing or from my website. Somehow, overnight it seems, I’ve become somewhat of a local sensation.  “The Haptic Painter” is what they call me, even though the majority of people probably have no idea what “haptic” even means. They just know I’m blind and I paint, and that’s enough to fuel the fire.  I’ve gotten calls from newspapers, television stations, online magazines, gallery owners, all wanting a little piece of what they see as a rising star. 

Or at least that’s what Cherelyn tells me. She’s been taking care of everything, including doling out excuses for why I won’t make appearances yet.  She’s protecting me, giving me a safe place to lick my wounds, hoping I’ll heal.

I haven’t told her that I don’t think I ever will.  She’d just worry more, and that wouldn’t do either of us any good.

Right now, I’m oblivious to most things that happen outside my studio, which has become my entire world, and I like it that way.  I’ve thrown myself into my painting.

For the second time in my life, I’ve needed it, needed its healing power, its calming influence.  When I’m not painting, I’m eating, showering, or sleeping. I don’t allow myself free time. Not anymore. I found out very quickly how dangerous and destructive that can be to me right now. I can’t afford to have time to think. To
feel.

Today is the first time I’ve ventured out of the apartment, and it’s only to go to class.  Healing Art
has become my shelter, my painting as much a refuge for
me
as much as it has been for my students.  I don’t want to let them down by missing another week.  Plus, part of me is hoping that they can help me put the pieces back together as much as I have
ever
helped them.

Cherelyn insisted on coming with me.  “I’m not crippled, Cher.”

“I know that. I’m just still in mama bear mode.  Can’t you just let me have this?”

Grudgingly, I gave in. But I won’t let her come again. The last thing I need is to become a burden to my best friend, too.

When I walk into class, the greetings of my sweet students wash over me. Like a mystical salve, their support and adoration cling to my raw and bleeding heart, covering the holes in it and stemming the flow of blood. At least for a little while.

I’m glad I came.  Seeing how happy these kids are to have me back reminds me that they deserve better than someone else to blow them off.

I smile, asking who’s in attendance and commenting to each one, slipping easily back into the comfort of my old routine. 

“How’s the still life coming, Darwin?” I ask when I hear that he’s present. The director of the art department at the college subbed for me while I was gone to New Orleans, and I’m praying Darwin didn’t lose any ground. He gets discouraged very easily.

“I’m almost finished,” he announces proudly.

“You are? I can’t wait to get my hands on it.  And, Alana, what did your mom say about your sunflower from last time?”

“She loved it! She said it was the most prettiest sunflower she ever saw.”  Her bright, innocent voice smoothes the ragged edges of my soul. It’s reassuring to know that not all hearts in the world are black.

“I’m so glad,” I tell her, and I genuinely am.  These people…they’re
my
people. They get me, and I get them.  This is where I belong. With the wounded, not in the arms of the man who broke me when I wasn’t looking.

“So, what are we painting today?” I ask, reaching out to touch the cool wood of my stool, the slick laminate of my table.  They remind me of better days.  They remind me that I survived once and that I can again.  They tell me that I will heal. Again.

Eventually.

“Let’s paint a boat!”  Alana is my joiner. She always has a suggestion, always has an answer, a smile, a cheer, a giggle. 

“A boat? What kind of a boat?  A
pirate’s
boat?  Argh!”

I’m rewarded with one of those giggles. “No, a littler boat.”

“Like a…” I rack my brain for names of small boats. Only one comes to mind, the only one that can steal my breath.  “Like a k-kayak?” I even stumble over the word.

“Yeah! Let’s paint a kayak!”

An image comes to mind. Well, my version of an image.  It’s a compilation of all the sights and sounds and smells attached to a specific memory, like the bayou.  All those sensory elements work together with the things I can remember from when I
could see
to paint a very detailed mental picture. 

In the space of a few seconds, the smell of damp earth, the texture of the humid air on my skin, the sound of Levi describing it all to me twirl through my mind in a kaleidoscope of brilliantly colored images.  With them come vivid sensations—being so happy I feel like my feet don’t touch the ground, being so exhilarated I feel like I could fly, being so optimistic I feel, for the first time in a long while, like everything might just work out in my favor.

The sights, the sounds, the smells, the
feelings
evoke so much emotion in me that I stagger.

I reach for my stool and take a deep breath, releasing it as slowly as I can.

“A kayak,” I repeat unsteadily.  “Let me think on that.”

I busy my fingers with spreading out my things, another habit that I hope can ease my sudden burst of heartache.  I jump when a hand touches mine. 

I settle when I hear the voice attached to it.  “Are you okay?”

Cherelyn.

I’d actually forgotten she’d come with me.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I just…I had a flashback.  I’ll survive.”

I hope the smile I give her
looks
more encouraging than it
feels.

“Okay. Just checking. If you need me…”

At this, I genuinely smile.  “You’ll go kick some butt for me?”

“I’d kick
all kinds
of butt for you.”

I put my hand over hers and squeeze. “I know you would, and I love you for it.”

I ponder the kayak.  Maybe it will be good for me,
cathartic
even to get some of the painful things
out of me
and
onto a canvas
. Maybe Alana is unwittingly handing me a gift. And maybe I should take it.

“You know, I think a kayak is a great idea,” I tell the sweet little girl.  “And I know just the river to put it on.  How about some trees, too?” I ask, conjuring in my mind what I imagine the Spanish moss-covered trees to look like on our bayou boat tour. Maybe I can exorcise the vision from my brain, rid myself of the image and
the agony of remembering it.

Alana cheers as much for trees as she did for boats, which is what she does for almost anything we paint in class.  She’s just happy to be here, and that kind of enthusiasm is contagious. In fact, today it feels like a
lifeline.

As I line my vision out in white paint on my canvas, I dig up all the happiness I felt on that day, all the optimism and hope, and for just this hour I let it eclipse all the hurt Levi later inflicted, all the disillusionment I still feel.  And by the time I dip my fingers into the café au lait color paint I mixed for the river Levi described that day, I feel a little more like myself.

Like the
me
I was before I got annihilated.

Healing Art
is an apt a name as ever.  It really does heal. An hour later, my smile is coming more readily and I’ve actually laughed a couple of times.  I’ve managed to forget the pain that waits for me just outside these four walls.  It’s been so effective, I forgot that Cherelyn was even with me. Didn’t even introduce her to the class.

“I’m so sorry, guys. My brain is a little like mush today. This is Cherelyn. She came to watch us paint.  Cherelyn, meet the class.  Better late than never, right?”

The class greets her in unison, and she greets them back with a totally Texan, “Hi, y’all.”

That earns her a giggle from Alana, who comes racing up to the front to bump me with her little nub. “Ms. Evie, Ms. Evie! He was here, he was here!”

I bend at the knee and reach for Alana’s shoulders.  “Who was here?”

“The man from the other day.  The one we played the music for.”

The man from the other day?

The one we played the music for?

What music?

Slowly, excruciatingly, realization dawns on me. It takes only one shallow breath for my pulse to trip up into an erratic patter. 

I straighten, reaching out with all my senses for any indication of Levi. I listen, I smell, I
feel. 
But I find no evidence of him. He’s as gone as he has been for the last two weeks.

“He’s gone,” Cherelyn confirms from behind me.  I whirl to face her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I hiss, both furious
and
astonished.

“What good would that have done?” Her question is quiet, and I picture a helpless expression on her face to go along with it.

She’s right. It wouldn’t have helped anything.  I needed this today and knowing he was here would’ve ruined it for me. In fact, I probably would’ve left, abandoned my class full of kids, and then felt like shit about it later. 

No, she did the right thing, even though I’m a shaky mess now and I doubt I’ll ever enter this room again without wondering if he’s here.

Then something occurs to me.  “Alana, did he tell you to ask to paint a boat?”

“Yes, Ms. Evie.  He said a kayak, but I didn’t know what that was. He told me it was a boat. A little boat.  And that’s what we painted. A little boat.  A kayak.”

“We sure did.  And I bet yours is a great looking kayak.”

“I wish you could see it.” I hear sadness in her voice, a very adult sadness that no child should know.  But she’s no average child.  Alana is more perceptive than most. She’s familiar with pain and suffering in a way no little girl should be. She knows what it’s like to be different, to be disabled, and she feels bad for me.

“I wish I could, too, sweetie.”

“Maybe one day she will,” Cherelyn adds from over my shoulder. “Maybe even one day soon.”

“You’ll be able to see one day?”  In her voice is amazement and glee, and the optimism of a child.  The pendulum of her mood swings quickly because, despite her familiarity with the darker side of life, she can still see the brightness of it, too.

“Maybe,” I reply weakly, vaguely.   Guiltily.

“You didn’t…you didn’t
forget
about it, did you?”  My best friend lays her hand on my arm, her voice rife with disbelief. And with worry.

The sale of all my paintings has netted me more than enough money to afford the experimental surgery that I’ve been waiting years to have. It’s a big deal. A life-changing deal.  Yet I haven’t given it a single thought since Levi came to see me that night almost two weeks ago.  My life has been a race against a black vortex of despair that hasn’t stopped chasing me since he walked out my front door.

“No. Of course not,” I deny nonchalantly.  “I hope I
can
see soon.  I’d love to be able to see this little lady’s paintings.”  I tug on the tip of one of Alana’s pigtails that I feel brushing her shoulder.

“I want you to! I want you to!”  She jumps straight up and down in her excitement, like she’s on a pogo stick.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell her with a grin. “Now, I bet your dad is waiting for you. You’d better get packed up.”

I hear the patter of her feet as she makes her way back to her easel, but already my concentration is on keeping strong legs. They just have to hold me up until I can get back home.  They just have to get me out of here and back to safety. 
Then
they can turn to rubber beneath me.
Then
I can crumble, I can cry, I can scream, and I can mourn.
Then
and only then can I stop trying so hard to hold my pieces together.

Then I can fall apart again.