by Monroe, Max
Looks like a trip into the city it is…
Packed to the brim with other Saturday-goers, I stand in the center of the metal-enclosed cart, my fingers clutching a silver pole for balance, and let my eyes rake discreetly over my ride companions.
A family with two small children and a stroller takes up the entire back wall. A group of giggling teenage girls stare down at their phones and take up nearly an entire row of seats on the left side. And a couple holding hands and smiling into each other’s eyes stand to the right of me.
But it’s the couple that I can’t seem to stop watching.
He reaches out, brushes her auburn hair out of her eyes, and her pink-coated smile grows.
They’re so beautiful, so in-the-moment, so lost in each other, it kind of hurts to witness.
Not because I don’t like seeing people so lost in love that the world around them dissolves, but because I do. I love to see it. I just don’t like to think about how much I want it for myself.
Which leads my thoughts down a dangerous path toward that fucking painting and the carefree version of me inside it and back into the emotional tailspin I’ve been trying desperately to ignore.
The subway screeches to another stop and people start filing off, but the couple stays rooted to their spot and fixated on each other’s eyes. Their decision to stay solidifies my decision to go, and I walk off the subway in the name of self-preservation.
I don’t even know what stop I’ve chosen, but I don’t care. I’ll make it work.
Once I make my way up the stairs and onto the sidewalk, the surroundings give me déjà vu, and it isn’t the good kind. I feel sick almost instantly, and the taste of tuna flashes in my mouth even though I haven’t eaten it since.
Of course, I took this fucking stop.
The gallery is a scant two blocks away, and I hate myself for not paying enough attention to end up anywhere but here.
Hell, even the claustrophobic crowds of Times Square would’ve been a better option than this. At least I could have popped into M&M’S World and left with five pounds of chocolate I don’t need.
After that night at the gallery, I’ve resisted the urge to find out anything about Ansel Bray. I told myself the girl in his painting wasn’t really like me, and it was all just a freakishly weird and mind-blowing coincidence. It was for the best that I retreat back to my art ignorant bubble and go on about my life.
Yet, here I am.
One foot after the other, two blocks are gone far faster than they should be.
With cold hands and a nearly frozen nose, I pull my earbuds out of my ears and stand in front of the building, peering through the windows to the right of the entrance.
It looks empty, completely vacant of movement and people, so I nearly jump out of my skin when one of the big wooden doors opens unexpectedly.
A man dressed in a smart suit steps out of the front doors and glances over his shoulder as he pulls a key out of his pocket. “We’re closed.”
“All day?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“The next exhibit is this evening, but it’s completely sold out,” he answers matter-of-factly. When I don’t acknowledge his statement or take any steps to move away, he glances at me over his shoulder again. “Did you need something else?”
“I’ve already seen his exhibit.”
“Okay…?” He pauses, and confusion creases his brow. “And you wanted to try to see it again?”
What is it I’m trying to do here? See the painting again?
Jesus. I don’t even know.
You want to see him.
That last thought stirs something inside my belly, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I…uh…I need to speak with him. With Ansel Bray.”
The guy chuckles. “You and everybody else, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Jesus. There’s only one thing I dislike about terms of endearment more than hearing them from my boyfriend, and that’s hearing them from complete fucking strangers.
“It’s really important,” I continue.
I have no idea what I’m doing. I have no idea what I’ll say.
But I can no longer ignore the fact that something is pulling me here.
The guy turns on his heels and scans my face. His brow furrows deeper as he takes in my eyes and my hair and my lips. And just before I attempt to toss out some ridiculous lie to try to persuade him, his gray eyes turn big and wide.
“Well, looks like someone is a liar,” he mutters to himself, slides his key back into the lock, and opens the door. “Come inside and give me a minute to get in touch with him.”
Ansel
“Ansel!” Lucy yells from the front office, and I groan.
She’s blatantly ignoring my request for no distractions, and I have a feeling it’s in direct protest of having to come into work on a Saturday to finalize a contract with a museum in San Diego.
Never mind it’s her own ineptitude that’s forced her here. The contract should’ve been finalized Thursday.
It’s my turn to play the ignore card, and I tap my brush against the side of my large easel three times, my eyes focused while my brain visualizes hues of pink and nude and cream.
“Ansel! You have a phone call!”
I set down my brush and run a hand through my hair. “Goddammit, Luce, I’m a little busy!”
“But it’s Nigel!” she shouts back. “I think it’s important!”
Nigel. I’ve been ignoring his text messages since he scheduled a bunch of phone interviews that I didn’t agree to. Boy oh boy, the mental Post-it note about ways to kill him sure is looking worn.
He better hope he’s calling me for a specific, vitally important reason.
I wipe my palms against my jeans and head toward the main office located at the front of my studio.
Lucy sits behind the desk, her lips pursed into an “I told you so” expression, and I roll my eyes as I grab the phone.
“What?” she chimes in before I answer the call. “No apology?”
I can’t not grin at that. “You’ve got some balls, you know that?”
She flutters her eyelashes dramatically. “So, I’m free to go home now?”
“Did you send the contracts?”
“God, you’re like a tyrant,” she groans, and my grin turns into a full-on smile.
While most days—like today—my assistant is a sarcastic, stubborn pain in my ass, I know for a fact that she is the only person in the world who would tolerate working for me for all these years.
I was a real bastard during those tragic months when I didn’t have my eyes and the vines of despair and bitterness had taken root within my heart, and I’m not all that much better now.
I’ll have to acknowledge her commitment at some point. Maybe some extra time off and maybe some bonus money to finance one of her many cosmetic procedures.
I grab the phone and put it to my ear.
“Hey, Nigel.”
“I know you’re in the studio this afternoon, but…uh…” He pauses, and I don’t miss the way amusement curls around his voice. “The model from your painting—the one that you specifically said doesn’t exist—well, she’s here…”
“Model?” I furrow my brow. “What model?”
“The girl in your painting,” he says, and I can actually hear the smile in his voice. “She’s here. In my gallery. Right now.”
I let out an annoyed sigh. “Stop fucking around, and tell me why you really called.”
“I’m not fucking around,” he retorts. “I’m literally standing here, in my office, looking at her through the glass.”
Now, he’s starting to piss me off. “I’m going to give you about ten more seconds, then I’m hanging up.”
“Honestly, Ans, I feel a little betrayed that you lied to me about your muse,” he says through a soft chuckle. “Here I thought she was just some fictitious angel inside your mind, but come to find out, she’s actually real.”
It’s on the tip of my tongu
e to call him a half-dozen less-than-flattering names, but then I think about the strange text Lennon Quill sent me. It was clever to have her at the opening, but not admitting she’s the inspiration.
My heart makes itself known inside my chest, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to make an escape from my body.
“The girl from my painting is at your gallery?” I ask, my voice a mere whisper.
“Yep,” Nigel answers like it’s not the most insane, unbelievable thing that’s ever left his lips. Because, in fact, it is.
The girl in my paintings, the angel inside my mind, she doesn’t exist.
At least, I didn’t think she did.
Does she?
“She said she wants to speak with you,” he adds.
Good God, what if she’s real?
“Tell her I’m on my way.” The words fall from my lips without a second thought. If she’s real, if Nigel isn’t fucking around with me, if Lennon Quill’s message actually held some truth to it, I need to see her with my own eyes.
“But…”
“Just tell her I’m leaving my studio now, and I’ll be there shortly, okay?”
“Okay.” Finally, all traces of amusement have left his tone. Probably because I foolishly haven’t done enough to hide how shaken I am.
I don’t waste any time after that, hanging up the phone, grabbing the essentials, and rushing out the door.
“If you’re leaving, I’m leaving!” Luce yells as I push it open. I’m too fucking consumed by what Nigel’s just told me to give a shit.
“Do whatever you want!” I yell back without a second thought.
Two stairs at a time, my feet move like they have a mind of their own, but I don’t protest.
They’re headed to the right place. To Aquavella.
Thirty minutes later, and my hands are close to shaking by the time I reach the front doors of the gallery.
Get it together, you fool, I tell myself.
Rationally, I know the odds of this woman being the woman from my paintings, the constant presence inside my mind, are impossible. I know this, yet my gut churns with this irrational elation. This undeniable surge of relief and excitement and palpable joy.
Usually, I’m the least excitable man I know. But today, right fucking now, I’m damn near high off the possibility of finding her. Of meeting her. Of seeing her in the flesh.
My mind has traced the lines of her face, her lips, her eyes, her hair, her soft skin a million times. I’ve seen her smile and her sadness and her melancholy. I’ve seen what her eyes look like when passion flashes within them.
I’ve never met her, but I already feel like I know her.
It’s insane, I know, but somehow, she’s become a part of me.
I inhale a deep, steadying breath and grab the large, distressed-wood handle of the gallery door. The wind whips through my leather jacket as I step inside, and when the door closes behind me with a quiet click, two sets of eyes turn to look at me.
One set of eyes are of a man who’s been a friend for most of my life.
The other are the sparkling blue of a woman I didn’t know could really exist. Even the gold flakes laced artfully within the blue are familiar, and it makes my heart ache and race at the same time.
Every nerve inside my body wakes up until I’m a walking live wire.
I rake my eyes down her cheeks and her lips and her hair and the slender lines of her neck. I think I’ve lost my mind because it’s her.
The girl in my paintings.
Her wide-open gaze turns guarded when her eyes lock with mine, and the urge to stride toward her and wrap her up in my arms overwhelms me.
I want to protect her from whatever it is that’s making her uncomfortable.
But I quell the nearly overpowering impulse because, in all likelihood, I am the thing that’s making her feel that way.
“Here he is,” Nye says as he stands up from one of the lobby chairs. “You made good time, buddy.”
“Hello,” I say to her. Nye has ceased to exist to me. There is only her and me, and…and I probably need to tone down the intensity a little, for fuck’s sake.
She looks like I’m scaring her.
Forcing the stiffness out of my jaw and the crazy out of my eyes, I put my hands in my pockets to seem less threatening and try again. “Hello.”
“Hi.” Her voice is so soft, so smooth, so melodic to my ears, it could be its own fucking instrument.
God, my heart is racing so fast. So fucking fast.
I have got to calm down before I make her run.
Hell, if I were her, and some strange man told me I was his muse even though we’d never met before, I’d probably run too.
“I’ll be in the back if you need anything,” Nye says, but I hardly notice when he quietly extracts himself from the room.
I step toward her and hold out my hand. “I’m Ansel Bray.”
Tentatively, she accepts it with her own.
It feels tiny and delicate and like the easiest comfort I’ve ever experienced in my life.
This is crazy. Fuck, I feel crazy.
“I’m Indigo Davis,” she responds.
“Indigo,” I mouth, and just a hint of a grin curls the corner of her mouth.
“My dad is a fan of the blues. He thought my name was a cheeky take on an ironic tribute.” She shrugs. “But everyone calls me Indy.”
“Nice to meet you, Indy.” Her name rolls off my tongue like it was always meant to be there.
She releases my hand, and I don’t miss the way her shaky fingers scratch at the fabric of her pants in quick, awkward strokes.
Silence stretches between us, and it takes everything inside of me not to let it grow while I feast my eyes on her face. On her eyes. On her lips. On her porcelain skin.
How can this be?
How is she here?
How is she real?
I blink my eyes and clear my throat. “So, you wanted to see me?”
She nods, but when her lips start to move, no words come out.
She has to know. She has to know she looks like the girl in my painting.
I take it upon myself to break the ice. “So, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been painting someone who looks exactly like you.”
She nods again.
“I have no fucking clue why.” It’s a soft statement, despite the vulgarity, and it’s apparently just what she needs to hear.
Her eyes light up with relief, and a nervous giggle escapes her lips. “God, I’m so glad you said that. I have no clue why either.”
I grin at the small victory.
“I’m sorry if you were busy,” she continues and pauses for a brief moment as she glances around the gallery before meeting my eyes again. “But…I saw the painting, and I just wanted to meet you.”
“I wasn’t busy, and I’m glad you came.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Of course.”
The fact that she’s even questioning my desire for her presence is mind-blowing, but I keep those details to myself. I can tell she’s nervous and scared and guarded. Like a beautiful little hummingbird locked inside a cage.
And that’s the exact opposite of how I want her to feel.
“I was here the other night,” she admits. “For the exhibition. With my sister.”
That explains the coke addict’s text.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I did,” she says and then giggles awkwardly as she fidgets her fingers together. “And I also didn’t.”
My lips crest up into a grin when she puts a hand over her mouth in surprise.
“Oh God, that sounded bad,” she grumbles, dropping her head fully into her hand before looking up to meet my eyes again. “I mean, I don’t know much about art…at all, really…but your paintings seem pretty great. It was just a little weird for me, you know?”
“I knew what you meant,” I say, and my smile grows. For some reason, I love that she doesn’t seem to know much about m
e. “I can imagine it’s a little weird having a man you’ve never met before paint a portrait of you.”
“Yeah…uh…it’s definitely not the norm, you know?”
“I know. I didn’t think the imaginary muse inside my mind was real, yet here you are, looking so much like her. Pretty much identical, if I’m being truthful about it. It’s a bit crazy.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Crazy is probably a good word for it.”
I chuckle, and I watch the way her eyes open wider, her guard slowly crumbling.
“Maybe we’ve passed each other in the street or seen each other on the subway.” She shrugs. “Or who knows, maybe I have a doppelgänger out there somewhere.”
I furrow my brow. “A doppelgänger?”
“Yeah,” she says with an uncertain little nod. “Someone who looks just like me. People post about their celebrity doppelgänger all the time on social media.”
“I don’t have any social media profiles.”
“Really?” She seems shocked, and the wide-eyed look that goes with it makes me want to laugh.
“Nope,” I respond. “I’m not much for social interaction.”
“Me either,” she agrees, which surprises me given how shocked she was about my lack of an Instagram account.
“An imaginary muse,” she repeats my earlier words, like she’s testing them out on her tongue.
To my soul, I know this isn’t some random coincidence. This beautiful woman standing in front of me, Indy Davis, is her. The girl I’ve been picturing inside my mind over the past year.
She is the girl in my paintings.
I know it in the way she moves her mouth and the way she smiles and the way her eyes reflect the light of day.
I know it’s her. It’s the whole, not-knowing-why part that has me reeling.
Though, my mind and my heart are fanatical in their pursuit to figure it out.
I’ve never been the type of man who believes in fate. But I know to my core that there is a reason for Indy.
A meaning. A purpose.
Her gaze is locked with mine, so tight, so strong and powerful, and I sense the way she’s searching my eyes for something. For answers to unknown questions. For reasons and truth. For something she’s hoping I know.