The Girl in the Painting

by Monroe, Max

  I’ve never had a woman affect me like this. But fuck, I’m affected.

  “Not gonna lie.” Lily pulls me from my overpowering thoughts. “I’m a little surprised you’re this amenable. You have a reputation for being…”

  “A dick?” I offer, and a burst of hilarity leaves her lips. Indy actually snorts.

  “You said it, not me.”

  “You’re not much for social interaction,” Indy says, repeating my words from the first time we met at Aquavella. A thrill runs down my spine.

  “Exactly.”

  A mischievous smile kisses her lips, and she nudges her sister. “Lily loves attention. I bet she would love being a celebrity.”

  “No doubt about that.” Her sister damn near cackles. “If I could change my name to Kily and join the Kardashian clan, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

  “Pretty sure Kily would be a PR nightmare.” Indy snorts again, and good God, why is this woman the most adorable creature I’ve ever encountered?

  The Davis sisters are both classically beautiful, but there’s a reason Indy is my muse.

  The way she moves. The way she fidgets her fingers when she’s nervous or uncertain. The way she worries her teeth against her bottom lip when she’s trying to find the right words. And when she smiles, really fucking smiles, it steals my goddamn breath.

  I feel as if I’ve known her all my life, yet I’ve been in her presence all of two times.

  “Do you mind if I ask a question?” Indy requests, and I’ve never been more excited for a fucking question in my life.

  “Of course.”

  “Occasionally, you use models for your paintings, right?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

  “Have you ever been on the other side of things?”

  I furrow my brow as I try to understand her question. “Are you asking if I’ve ever been the subject?”

  She nods and, for a brief moment, I admire the way her long lashes sweep across her pretty face.

  “Well…” I pause and search my mind. “Actually, no. I don’t think I have.”

  “That seems a little unfair, don’t you think?” she questions, her voice teasing. “I mean, in order to really understand your subjects, don’t you think you should try being on the other side of the canvas?”

  “You know,” I say and run my fingers over my chin, “I’ve never really thought about it like that before. But I guess, yeah, I probably should, huh?”

  Indy grins. “You should.”

  Before I can add to it, our server steps up to our table and begins to set our meals in front of us. Steak for me, grilled chicken for Lily, and chicken fingers and fries for Indy.

  The mere idea of chicken fingers and fries makes me laugh, and Indy looks up from her plate to meet my eyes. “What?” she asks. “What are you looking at?”

  “I didn’t realize Bistro had a kids menu,” I say, and I’m rewarded with another ridiculous snort.

  “Mind your own business, pal,” she orders with a smile. “Chicken fingers and fries are delicious.”

  It takes Lily interrupting our banter with another question to make me remember we’re not on a date.

  “Have you sold any of your paintings from the exhibition?”

  I finish chewing my bite of steak and take a sip of wine. “Not a single one.”

  “That sounds like a lie,” she guffaws. “I happen to know there are a ton of people out there vying to get an Ansel Bray.”

  “Yeah, but you asked me if I’d sold one of my paintings, not if there was interest in them.”

  Lily raises a pointed eyebrow. “Those two things are normally directly linked. Are you not planning on selling any of them?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug and meet Indy’s curious eyes. “I’m not sure if I can part with any of them. Most of the people trying to buy them want them for the status, not for the art.”

  And in some form or another, the paintings are all inspired by Indy. They deserve to be cherished by someone who sees their real value.

  “When you’re in your studio, do you have a specific routine when it comes to painting?” Lily asks, and lamentably, I take my eyes off her sister to look her in the eye.

  “A certain routine?” Like fucking jumping jacks? What in the hell is she talking about?

  She nods. “Like a certain time of day you always paint, or do you just paint when inspiration strikes? What’s a normal day look like for Ansel Bray?”

  “Let’s see.” I hum. “When I’m inspired, I’m generally in my studio for hours, surviving off water and granola bars and the musical genius of Chopin or Vivaldi, while I paint until my fingers threaten to fall off.”

  “So music is a must for you in the studio.”

  “Definitely.”

  “You know,” Lily continues and glances at her sister. “Indy is a classically trained musician. She’s even played with the New York Orchestra.”

  My heart trips over its own rhythm, and it takes everything inside of me not to choke on my wine.

  A specific painting pops into my head, and I force myself to push it away and act like I haven’t just been punched in the gut with the undeniable realization that I know Indy Davis far more than I even realized.

  Holy shit.

  Indy’s shoulders are rigid with tension and discomfort again.

  “I don’t play professionally anymore,” she comments faux-casually. There’s a pain rooted there, deep in the bowels of her response, but I don’t pry. Clearly, the last thing she wants is to go into it.

  “What do you do now, Indy?”

  “I’m a music teacher.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Great Elm School. It’s a private school in the Bronx.”

  I grin at the thought of her with children. “Do you like it?”

  “I hate my commute, but, yes, most days I do like it.” She shrugs and smiles at the same time. “Although, there are some days I wonder why I didn’t try harder to become a YouTube Influencer instead.”

  What the hell is a YouTube Influencer?

  I raise my eyebrows, and she laughs. “It’s a thing, trust me. You’d think it’s the kindergarteners that give me the most trouble, but honestly, it’s the smartass eighth-graders. Especially, the boys.”

  I laugh. “Hormones and puberty, a deadly combination.”

  Indy opens her mouth to respond, but the sounds of a phone ringing pull her attention toward her purse. When she takes it out of the front pocket, her mouth forms a tiny little O of surprise. “Shit,” she mutters, and her sister glances at the screen.

  “You should get that,” Lily says. “I’m sure Ansel will understand that you need to answer Matt’s call.”

  Matt?

  Who the fuck is Matt?

  Indy glances at the screen and then at me, and eventually, she gets up from the booth. Her eyes are apologetic, but I offer an understanding smile as she excuses herself from our table.

  Once Indy is out of sight, Lily gives me all the details I wish I could unhear. “Her boyfriend is on a work trip in Europe for the next few weeks, and the time change isn’t the easiest to manage.”

  I nod, but on the inside, I’m dying.

  I’m officially jealous of a man I’ve never met.

  Indy

  I glance up at the clock above the door to my classroom and see it’s already 2:15. Only ten more minutes to go until I send my last class back to Mrs. Thomas’s homeroom and finish up my day.

  For a Friday, this day is dragging on like a migraine.

  The morning started off a bit rough when I had to discipline Austin, one of my second-graders, for singing “Mary Had a Little Fart” instead of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

  When I sat him down for a nice little chat and asked him what prompted him to come up with his own creative arrangement instead of following the one provided, he told me that “snitches get stitches.”

  Is it just me, or are second-graders seeming older these days?

  It took pret
ty much everything inside of me not to laugh.

  Unfortunately, Austin set the tone for the day, and I’ve had to spend the last six or so hours trying to wrangle what might as well have been a hardened, gang-sign-repping herd of feral cats.

  Needless to say, these kids are ready for the weekend, and I am too.

  While the first-graders from Mrs. Thomas’s class put their instruments back in the bins, I grab my mug from my desk and take a sip.

  “What are you drinking, Ms. Davis?” Olivia asks, and I look up to find her back in her assigned seat.

  “Coffee.”

  “Ew, gross!” she exclaims, and her face pinches in disgust. “Coffee gives my mom bad breath!”

  “You should drink beer instead, Ms. Davis,” Kyle chimes in as he settles into his seat. “My dad does all the time. He says it takes the edge off.”

  Kyle’s dad is the father of three rowdy boys who are all under the age of ten. Surely, the man deserves to have something in his life that takes the edge off.

  I swallow my urge to laugh and smile. “Thanks for the tip, Kyle.”

  “No problem!”

  Conversations like these are probably my favorite thing about the little kids.

  They’re so innocent and sweet, and yet they never hesitate to tell you exactly what’s on their young minds. They also never miss an opportunity to throw their parents or siblings under the proverbial bus.

  The warning bell chimes through the intercom, and my students stand up excitedly from their seats. With a lot of deep breaths and grit, I wrangle them into a line and lead them to their homeroom.

  Once they’re safely inside Mrs. Thomas’s room, I head back to my classroom and decide to make an early escape for the day. No music lessons on the books for the afternoon means I’m a free woman until Monday.

  Five minutes before the end-of-day bell rings, I’m turning off the lights in my classroom, waving goodbye to the ladies in the front office, and walking out the front doors of the school before anyone can stop me for small talk.

  The subway station is a short walk, five blocks or so, and once I make my way down the stairs, I wait on the platform for the next train and check my phone for emails, missed calls, and text messages.

  The monthly school newsletter from our principal.

  A text from Lily.

  A missed call from my mom.

  A text from Sally.

  The last one makes me decide to avoid all of them for now.

  I open my purse, dump my phone inside, and then look up and directly into the familiar golden-brown eyes of Ansel Bray.

  My heart kicks up in speed and I blink a few times to comprehend if what I’m seeing is real or a hallucination. I know I’ve been thinking about him a lot—okay, nonstop—but what are the odds that he’d be here, in the Bronx, at the same subway station as me?

  Probably about as good as you ending up in one of his paintings…

  The ridiculous, unbidden thought almost makes me laugh.

  God, he looks handsome. The same leather jacket. The same boots. The same perfectly messy hair. And those eyes.

  Hi, he mouths toward me, and a smile kisses my lips without my permission.

  God, who is this man? I silently wonder to myself. Who is he and where did he come from?

  After I got home from Bistro two nights ago, I finally gave in and internet-stalked him. Per my Google research, Ansel Bray is a thirty-four-year-old, world-renowned artist whose paintings sell for insane amounts of money. But it was only after he was in a tragic car accident and lost his sight that his success really skyrocketed.

  Some people even call him the Leonardo da Vinci of his time.

  He’s also the brother of Bram Bray, a member of the rock group New Rules. Which is…big news for a fan of New Rules like me.

  And now, a modern-day da Vinci with his brand-new eyes and his handsome smile is walking toward me.

  His long strides are unhurried but unbelievably efficient, and before I know it, he’s standing right beside me.

  He slides his hands into his pockets and stares toward the tracks. It’s only then that I notice the earbud cord that peeks out from beneath his black hoodie.

  He doesn’t say anything, just stares expectantly into the dark void of the tunnel, and I don’t say anything either.

  Normally, I’d feel compelled to say something, do something, but rather than give in, I decide to trust that his silence has some sort of purpose.

  I don’t know why he’s here, inside this subway station, waiting beside me, but I can only assume it’s because he needs to be somewhere.

  Maybe he’s headed to his studio?

  Does he even have an art studio?

  Of course, he has an art studio, Indy. He’s a famous painter. It’s not like he’s creating masterpieces in his fucking kitchen.

  A small sliver of relief fills my chest when the lights in the station flicker. I’m committed to the silence, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to go against my habit to fill it with words.

  With an audible screech, my train arrives, and I step inside.

  Ansel steps inside too.

  The doors close behind us.

  I sit down in an empty seat.

  He sits down beside me.

  I look at him expectantly, search his steady gaze to try to will him to end my torture, but he doesn’t cave. Instead, he smiles this soft, warm, cozy, fucking perfect smile, and I break out in goose bumps.

  What is it about this guy?

  Ansel slides his earbuds out of his ears, and before I know it, he’s slipping them inside mine.

  “Brindo” by Devendra Banhart, a song I know to my bones, starts up, and my heart threatens to crawl up into my throat as the music both haunts and soothes my nerves.

  I’m surprised he knows this song, much less has it on his phone.

  His brown eyes lock with mine, and my breath stutters inside my lungs.

  My hand shakes in my lap, and for some unknown reason, he reaches out and interlocks our fingers. His sturdy hold quells the earthquake of nerves beneath my fingertips.

  I should pull away, but I don’t. I can’t.

  Instead, I savor the feel and relief of it.

  With two long fingers, he brushes against my cheek and slips one earbud out of my ear. “I want to show you something,” he whispers, and I watch the way his long, dark lashes swipe gently over his eyes.

  Show me something?

  I blink. “Right now?”

  He nods but doesn’t say anything else.

  God, this is insane.

  I hardly know this man, yet I feel like I do. And I should probably be concerned about him being some kind of secret serial killer or something, but before I know it, I’m whispering “Okay” back to him.

  Okay. Simple as that. No questions. No concerns. Just okay.

  What is wrong with me?

  I nod toward the phone in his hands. “Can I see?”

  He tilts his head to the side as he follows my line of sight. “My phone?”

  “Your music.”

  You can find out so much about someone just by hearing their favorite songs.

  Their fears. Their ambitions. What moves them.

  And there is something inside of me that wants to know everything about him.

  Something that is pulling me toward him.

  He obliges, but before I let my curious mind have at it, I pull my phone and my earbuds out of my purse. I slip my earbuds into his ears and scroll through my favorite playlist until I find the perfect song.

  “You’re playing me a song?” he asks and I nod.

  “Yes, but this one needs to be played as loud as your ears can tolerate.” I turn up the volume, and with one tap to the screen, I watch his eyes as he reacts to the opening piano notes of “Comptine d’un autre été.”

  To my surprise, he takes the phone from my hands and turns up the volume even more. He closes his eyes and drifts away, straight into the music.

  No questions asked.<
br />
  Ansel

  I’ve never stalked anyone in my life.

  A statement, ladies and gentlemen, I could only candidly make until today.

  Truthfully, I’ve never even had the urge to track someone down. I’m more of a people-avoider than a people-tracker, but everything I’ve ever known seems upside down when Indy’s around.

  I feel a bit like a creep. Like an evil bastard. But here I am, sitting beside her on the subway, and I have no one to blame but myself.

  I ignored the fact that she has a boyfriend, completely put the bastard named Matt out of my head, and took a day-trip to her school—after finding said school on Google Maps. And I might have also timed said trip to have me arriving near the end of the school day and hung out inside the closest subway station that would take someone—Indy—in the direction of Brooklyn.

  I was seconds away from scrapping the whole thing, finally having found a little morsel of morals at the bare bottom of my conscience jar, but when I saw her step into the station, I was powerless to stop myself from doing something about it. Seeing her, talking to her again, being fucking near her—all things I now feel like I need.

  She’s a red string tied to my finger, and I can’t forget her. Can’t shake her. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, what I’m focused on, she’s always in the back of my mind, her name is always on the tip of my tongue.

  It’s crazy.

  I’m probably fucking crazy.

  But here I am, and I can’t stop looking at her.

  Her petite hand grips my phone, and I watch with rapt attention as she scrolls through my library. Her teeth sneak out to scrape across her bottom lip as she pauses mid-scroll to tap on a song called “I See You.”

  I nearly laugh at the irony of it.

  These days, she’s all I fucking see. Hell, I haven’t stopped seeing her since the day I opened my new eyes.

  Her tongue sneaks out and licks across her pretty little lips, and I watch the tiniest hints of a smile crest her mouth up at the corners.

  I wonder if she even knows just how beautiful she is.

  The way she moves, the way she breathes, and her perfect blue eyes. I could swim in them.

  Her long lashes brush across her cheeks as she blinks once, twice, and three more times before averting her gaze from my phone across the aisle of the subway.