Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (11 page)

It is not abnormal for me to become captivated by a subject. I’ll stare at photos for hours, sit in the same place at a ball game, the beach, a park, a concert—and just study someone until what I see is captured and ready to be used.

With Jordan, I’m not only inspired to paint her, I need to understand her.

She was not lying or speaking from her script when she talked about her goals the other night. I’ve seen her when she does that—her brain turns off, her mannerisms become small, almost obsolete, and her voice takes on the superficial quality that I associate with most politicians. She doesn’t think—like an animal who is trained to retrieve, she gives the answer expected.

The other night, she wasn’t giving the company line. Her face, it was expressive, passionate, alive. I didn’t understand the process she was talking about, but I understood the belief behind it. When she spoke about trying, even if the attempts were futile… in that moment, more than anything else, I began to understand her.

Dropping her off and walking her to her building, I asked her for the last time. “Why USD instead of Yale? If what you want is there, why are you here?”

She stopped and looked out, scanning the city and its beaches from her spot on the hill, and then she smiled. “Sometimes, we forget we have a choice. For all the decisions we think we’re making alone, we’re actually making most of them with someone else in mind. I forgot,” she finished with a small nod of her head. “And I let someone else make my choices for me.”

Those words have stayed with me for the last four days. Hunter and I are almost done with Mal’s house—a few days more and it’s complete. We’ve got three different projects we’re stretching ourselves between on top of that, and another two we are about to start.

No matter how tired I’ve been at the end of the day, I have come home and sketched—eyes, face, lips, thoughts—they’ve all been some part of Jordan while I work to discover the whole.

Today, I’ve found a piece of her while my brush strokes over the canvas, forming lines and curves. Fan, liner, filbert, shader—I have four brushes between my fingers switching back and forth while I bring her to life. It’s not about the image—everyone always asks me what I
see
when I create a particular piece. I rarely answer, but I always think the same thing: it’s not about seeing. It’s about feeling.

What I feel when I’m with Jordan… it’s discovery. This is a girl who has untapped strength, one with a brain and a heart. She isn’t always strong, though; just like she isn’t always herself. She’s the pockets of insecurity we feel each day, the failures we can’t avoid, the pain and the heartache. But she’s also the sun, the imagination, the life we want and work for.

Time goes by unnoticed while I work. The only thing I pause to do is turn on the lights when the sun goes down. In the end, Jordan’s form blooms from red and orange and pink. There are stray lines of black I etched along her jaw and hair, the undersides of her arms as they extend out to her side, palms lifted up to the sky like her face.

The colors used signify how I see her—strong and passionate, with energy that bubbles beneath the surface at all times. There are no cool colors, no green or blue, or even purple. Jordan breathes life from the canvas, beckoning to all of us with her warmth.

I grab my stencils and a sponge, using white paint to coat over the mostly-dry portrait.

GRAVITY.

It sits over her form—divided, so the word is three levels of two letters, three letters, two letters—hiding some of the color, barely visible, until one looks long enough, studies hard enough, they understand their meaning.

“We forget we have a choice.”

I don’t think Jordan forgot about her choices—I think she knew she would never be given a choice. I know well that dreaming can only give us what we want for so long before gravity drags us back down and forces us to live in the world we have created.

I called Ashton back. She did not answer, but I didn’t really expect her to. My message was brief, asking how she was, requesting that she call me. At the end, I couldn’t stop myself from adding “I’m here, Ash, in case you need anything.”

Staring at Jordana in front of me, I wonder what I’m going to do. Something inside of me moves when I think about her. I could ignore it for a while longer, but that would be pointless.

What I feel is who I am—even if I’m not ready to admit that what I feel for a girl I met a week ago is far more than I want to. Especially when I know she’s becoming more than my muse.

Chapter 19

Jordan

Nala is standing on a board next to mine, her compact body a study of lithe athleticism. She’s wearing a mismatched bikini—the top a white Roxy halter crop with a sunshine on the front, the bottom dark-purple triangles that barely cover her essentials. I’m in my high-waist Chloe bottoms and matching bandeau top in black, a sunhat the size of Texas covering my head and the rest of my face, while the beach-bum princess next to me soaks in the first morning rays, highlighting her already-golden skin.

Nala is paddling at a steady pace, explaining the best way to situate my weight, the best positioning for my feet, my paddle, how to turn and what to watch out for, just like she has every time in the last week. We’re at the Cove near the airport. It’s early morning; there’s traffic, both air and street, but it’s light enough everything seems sleepy and quiet. Kind of magical.

There are other paddlers around us, some in groups, some alone, some doing yoga, some just paddling. I’m on my knees on my own board, following Nala’s instructions. It’s getting easier, but without concentration, I tend to wobble.

“Are there other places to paddleboard?” I ask when we take a break. She settles onto her board in downward dog. I sit and let my feet dangle. I just mastered staying steady on my knees—contorting my body into pretzel-like positions while remaining sky-side on my board just seems like too much of a risk. Or too much effort.

I’m glad to be doing more than the walking my mother always considered an acceptable form of exercise
for a lady
, but after my first paddleboard lesson with Nala almost two weeks ago, I learned quickly that she is at another level. Now, when I join her on morning or afternoon paddles, we paddle a little, and then I sit and she does her yoga. When she’s done, we paddle some more before heading to class or dinner.

“Ready for something harder?” she asks.

I watch her balance on one leg. “Hardly. I just figured you must get bored with one place.”

She drops onto her hands and knees. “The Cove is one of my favorite flat-water places. It’s close to school, and it’s easy to get to. When I’m looking for more work and a bit of a rush, I go surfing—or I’ll take my board to La Jolla Cove, and paddle on the ocean for a while.”

I think of paddling out into open water. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Sure. But then, driving a car is dangerous, too. It just depends on how good you are.”

I suddenly hope that Nala is a better swimmer than she is a driver. “Have you always been this adventurous?”

She switches to another pose, her muscles bunching and flowing as she stretches her body. “This isn’t adventure, Red; it’s life. The water… it’s the only place I never questioned myself growing up.” She swoops down and arches her back up so her face is raised to the sky while her pelvis is flat on the board. Her arms hold her upper body. “In high school, well, I wasn’t a good student because I didn’t care enough, and I spent too much time trying to morph my social self into the person I thought I should be. But the water… it was the one place I was truly comfortable, without any of the pretense.”

“That’s what school is to me,” I say. She ends her pose on her knees, chest down, hands flat on the board above her head. “Until recently, school was the thing I could count on. The one place I knew what I was doing was right, that it was worth it.”

She sits up to look at me now, sitting back on her haunches. “Worth what?”

“Being perfect. Being good. Being exactly who and what I was supposed to be.” I shake my head, offering a small shrug. “It’s strange how a little change in perspective can alter all of that. Two weeks ago, I was sure I was going to hate it here. Now…” I think of how I felt the day I left L.A. compared to today, sitting on a borrowed paddleboard in the middle of the water while the world wakes up around me. And then I think of Brooklyn. “Now, I think it’s not the place I hated, so much as who I was becoming.”

Nala nods her head in understanding. “I’ve had those moments—when everything you think you know changes, and sometimes the unexpected part is better than you imagined.” She trails off and I know she’s holding something back. I don’t ask; like Brooklyn, Nala’s life has secrets—ones she deserves to keep to herself.

“Have you heard from your brother again?” she asks.

“No, he wasn’t home when I dropped his dry cleaning off last week, and though we have the same class, we avoid each other.” Which bothers me, because while we haven’t been close in a long time, we have never been this hostile. “My mom called to tell me she and my father are coming up for dinner next weekend, so I’ll get to see him face-to-face soon enough.”

She reaches up to the sky, back arched. “You know what you need?”

“Don’t say yoga. Just watching you is making me tired.”

She smiles and changes positions. “You need some fun. There’s a party tomorrow everyone in our dorm is all abuzz over. We should go. Maybe we can even mark another item off your list.”

I splash water at her and lean back on my hands. “You make it sound like an illicit list. Brooks even asked me about.”

“Speaking of Brooks,” she says. I shake my head at her eyebrow wiggle. “What time is he picking you up for this baseball game?”

I shrug. “Five. Are you sure you don’t want to come? He has another ticket.”

“Nah, baseball doesn’t really do it for me. Besides, my mom called. She’s making me dinner tonight because she misses me.”

I wonder if that’s why my parents are coming to see me in a week. “Okay. But they finished Malcolm’s house. Brooks wants to know if we are going to the housewarming-slash-goodbye party next weekend.” Nala shrugs and looks out to the water, something she does any time Malcolm is mentioned. “I told him I would talk to you.”

“Yeah, Hunter texted me about it. I was going to tell you. Of course we should go.”

She stands and grabs her paddle. After a second spent watching her, I follow her lead and grab my own paddle, shifting to my knees. Nala shakes her head.

“Stand up, Red. It’s time.”

I glance at her, and her face is determined. “You’ve been careful long enough—time to stand on your feet and go for it. If you fall, it’s just water.”

“How metaphorical of you,” I mumble.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Holding my paddle in one hand, I slowly push to my feet, remembering what Nala said about balancing my weight and spreading my toes. When I’m steady, I look at her. She smiles, already paddling away.

I follow, a little slower, a little more unsteady. And I think maybe Nala just challenged me like Hunter and Brooks challenged her by inviting her to Mal’s party.

Chapter 20

Brooks

Baseball is an acquired taste. I’ve never watched an entire baseball game on television because there is only so much boring I can handle. Live, it’s good—entertaining in the very least—because there is beer and atmosphere, but I’ve never been what one would term a diehard. I watch, I drink, maybe I pick up a girl, but I definitely go home early because while fun, nine innings is too long.

But tonight, watching Jordan, the game could last for twenty innings and I would never be bored.

This girl’s brain never turns off. Any minute, I think she might take out her phone and start jotting down notes.

“So you’re saying it doesn’t matter that our batter was thrown out because our runner scored?” I nod. “But now we have two outs. One more, and we have to give them a chance at bat.”

“You’re thinking too defensively, Red.” This from Hunter, who is seated on the other side of Jordan. “The outs are inevitable. A team can’t play with the goal of
not getting out
. They play with the goal of scoring, which means analyzing probabilities and options, and eventually taking a chance and hoping it pays off.”

I watch Jordan’s face while she processes this. “I can’t imagine leaving something as important as a win to chance,” she says after a moment.

“It’s not about
leaving it to chance
,” I say. She turns away from Hunter and toward me. “It’s about
taking the chance
.”

We lock eyes and I know she understands.

“On that note,” Hunter says and drops his feet to stand. “I’m going to take
my
chances with the blonde over there hanging around Malcolm and his current find. I’ll see you kids later.”

I barely glance at him. He laughs and pats Jordan on the shoulder before walking through our row and down the stairs. We are in right field, and because it’s a Wednesday—and because we’re playing the Rockies who suck—the majority of the seats directly around us are empty. The people in our area are more concerned with socializing than watching the game.

“Still studying to become a teacher?” I ask.

She nods, taking a sip from her water bottle. “Yes.”

“So your goals are different this week? No more algorithms and changing the way the world does things? No more list reminding you to breathe, to act, to
take the chance
?”

My voice is neutral, but my words are not. I’m being aggressive. I can’t say why, other than I have thought about her all week. Something has been building inside of me, something which has only gotten bigger since I painted her. I need to see her succeed on her own terms.

It almost feels desperate the way I need that.

Jordan stares at me, possibly offended, definitely aware of what I’m doing. “I’m reading this book,” she starts finally. I raise my brows. “It’s about metacognition and our knowledge of self and others. Things like: ‘what do I know about me, what do I know about how I learn, how I respond, how I approach things?’ etc. It also identifies the power we get from understanding other people.”