The Girl in the Painting

by Monroe, Max

  “You’re, like, smiling and shit. It’s weird.”

  I furrow my brow. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You never smile.”

  “I smile.”

  “Uh, no, you don’t,” she retorts on a laugh. “Not even on your birthday.”

  “No one smiles on their fucking birthday once they reach thirty.”

  “Yeah,” she chimes in with a cheeky smile. “And you’re thirty-four, so…”

  “Are you done?”

  She shrugs one bony shoulder and rests her chin on her hands. “Are you going to tell me what has you all smiley and shit?”

  “No.”

  “Then, yeah, I’m done.”

  “I’ll see you Monday,” I say through yet another smile. “If Nigel calls, let him know I don’t want to talk to him.”

  Now Lucy’s mouth curls up at the corners. “Will do.”

  With the essentials in my pockets, I shrug my leather jacket over my shoulders and head out the door.

  First stop, coffee.

  Second stop, Indy.

  I arrive at Indy’s school early. Thirty minutes early, to be exact.

  Instead of waiting outside in the blistering cold, I decide to hit the buzzer on the front door and let them know I’m a visitor for Ms. Davis.

  They let me inside, and I walk in the direction of the front office to get my visitor’s pass.

  Drawings and artwork line the walls, and I smile at the idea of budding new artists. A few tiny people roam about outside of their classrooms, but mostly, the hallway is silent.

  I grin when I see a little boy with curly red hair attempt to get a sip of water from the fountain and miss his mouth entirely.

  He swipes one hand down his shirt, soaking the liquid into the cotton material, before giving it another try and managing to hit his mouth bull’s-eye on his second attempt.

  I walk inside the door marked Office and am greeted by a pleasant woman in a turtleneck and sweater vest. The nameplate on her desk says Mrs. Shirley Williams, and it suits her. She looks exactly how I’d picture a Shirley to look.

  “I’m a friend of Ms. Davis.”

  “Does she know you’re coming?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, then,” Shirley says. “I need to see your ID, and if you could just sign there for me…” She nods at the clipboard on the edge of the desk. “I’ll get you a visitor’s pass.” I do as she asks, and she smiles as she hands me the pass. “Her classroom is located on the second floor, down toward the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks.”

  I press the name tag to my leather jacket and follow Shirley’s directions with ease.

  The door to Indy’s classroom is open, so I stand at the threshold and watch her for a quiet moment while she instructs a class of little boys and girls on how to keep the beat by clapping their hands.

  They stare up at her like she’s a wonder of the world, and I can one hundred percent relate.

  She notices movement out of the corner of her eye as I cross my arms over my chest and lean into the doorjamb. Her eyes widen with surprise, and I offer a little wave in the form of a fresh cup of coffee.

  “You’re early,” she mouths, and I shrug.

  “Who are you talking to, Ms. Davis?” a little girl in the front row asks. Her gaze follows Indy’s and latches on to me. “Who is he?”

  The rest of the class moves their attention toward the door, and Indy lets out an exasperated laugh. “Looks like you’ve been caught red-handed, and now you need to face the consequences.”

  A confused smile crosses my lips. “Consequences?”

  Indy doesn’t respond. Instead, she gestures me inside. “This is my friend,” she announces to her class. “Class, everyone say hello to Mr. Bray.”

  “Hello, Mr. Bray!”

  “Hi.” I laugh and run a hand through my hair as I walk toward the front of the classroom and set Indy’s coffee on her desk. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “What is your first name?”

  “Are you Ms. Davis’s boyfriend?”

  The questions are thrown rapid-fire toward us, and I now understand what Indy meant by consequences.

  “All right,” Indy says calmly toward her students. “Everyone just settle down for a minute, and if you have a question, you know the rules.”

  “We have to raise our hands!” they shout back toward her.

  Indy nods. “Exactly.”

  Every hand in the classroom shoots up to form a field of waving arms.

  She shoots an amused grin in my direction and whispers, “Consequences.”

  I laugh. “I think I can handle them.”

  They’re just a bunch of kids, right?

  “Amy.” Indy points toward a little girl with a blond ponytail seated in the back of the classroom. “What is your question for Mr. Bray?”

  “Are you one of the guys on my mom’s books?”

  I tilt my head to the side and look at Indy for a little clarity, but she just shrugs and shakes her head. “Your mom’s books?”

  “Yeah!” Amy shouts toward me, inside voice be damned. “My mom has all these books with guys with their shirts off! You kind of look like one of ’em!”

  Fucking hell. So much for just a bunch of kids.

  Indy has to cover her mouth with her hand as her shoulders start to vibrate with laughter, and it takes everything inside of me not to laugh. “Um…I’m pretty sure I’m not one of those guys.”

  “Oh.” Amy’s disappointment is evident. Her lips turn down into a little frown. “Never mind, then.”

  The class starts to chatter and argue among themselves, and Indy’s big blue eyes meet mine.

  “I’m really hoping Amy’s mom reads romance novels.” The only other option I can think of that would apply would be some type of adult magazine.

  “Me too,” Indy agrees with a secret smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to corral my class back into order, and I don’t think it will be possible with you standing up here. Take a seat in the back while we finish up.”

  I smile at the way she orders me rather than requests. Seeing her as a teacher is like seeing her in another light.

  “You got it, Ms. Davis.”

  Indy

  “I can’t believe the big thing that was bothering you was the Met. You’re kind of dramatic, you know that?” I tease Ansel, and he feigns a scowl.

  “It was tragic, Indy. You’re a New Yorker, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, I’ve been now.” I waggle my brows and look around the vast displays of painting and sculptures encased within one of the most popular art museums in the country, if not the world.

  “Yeah, thanks to me.”

  “Minor semantics.” I grin and follow Ansel’s path toward a long wall of large, ornately framed paintings.

  “By the way, I still think you’re dramatic.”

  “I’m an artist, Indy.” He grins at me in my periphery. “We’re known to be moody, intolerable, stubborn bastards. Dramatic isn’t exactly far removed from that list.”

  For the past hour, we’ve explored the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s creative and iconic nooks and crannies, and I’ve yet to grow bored of listening to him tell me about the artists and the sculptors and showing me his favorite works.

  His passion for art shines in his words, and I don’t think I could ever get tired of that kind of love and adoration.

  The more time I spend with him, the more I realize he is infinitely interesting to me. Each encounter, I learn something new—about him, about myself, about life. It’s as if he has the ability to open my eyes to worlds I didn’t know existed.

  “Also, I guess I should admit, I’m glad your art neuroses got the best of you today.” I nudge his arm with my elbow. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

  “You’re welcome.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and the warmth of his body permeates my sweater. “And if you like this, then one day, you need to go to
Paris to see the Louvre.”

  “You’ve been to Paris?”

  “More than a few times,” he answers. “It might be my favorite city in the world, and that’s saying a lot coming from a homebody like me.”

  I smile at his playful words, but mostly, my mind flits off into a tiny daydream.

  Of Ansel and me in Paris. I imagine myself inside the City of Love, exploring its beauty and charm. The Louvre. The Eiffel Tower. Montmartre. All of the places I’ve heard about but have never seen up close and personal.

  I want to see his favorite places and works of art with that mesmerizing passion shining from his eyes.

  He stops in front of a painting titled The Birth of Venus, and I blink out of my unrealistic fantasy as Ansel invites me to look at it closely.

  We’re not in Paris.

  Though, I suppose, I could be.

  A gold plaque sits below the large framed work and names Alexandre Cabanel as the artist.

  My gaze moves across the canvas and takes in the soft lines of the female form. The angels hanging above her. The way her hair rests on top of the water and the tender curves of her body.

  “I think this is the tenth Venus I’ve seen today,” I joke, and Ansel’s responding chuckle causes a smile to kiss my lips.

  “In Roman mythology, Venus was the goddess of love, sex, beauty, and fertility,” he explains, and I look away from the painting to meet his eyes.

  “And what does she mean in art?”

  “She’s the feminine image of love,” he says. “Da Vinci, Picasso, Monet… Every great artist has a Venus.”

  I quirk a brow.

  “Their Venus is their muse,” he adds. “The woman who consumes their mind and inspires them to paint or sculpt until they either die or their fucking fingers fall off.”

  I giggle. “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all.” His brown eyes glaze over with something more, something deep, something poignant.

  “That’s…intense,” I respond on a mere whisper, and I don’t know if I’m responding to his words or describing his eyes.

  God, those eyes. I feel like they can see everything. Like they can see me. All of my good and my bad and my ugly. All of my imperfections. All of my hopes and dreams.

  I stare into them for a long moment, just letting myself bask in their beauty and mystery and familiarity. They suit him so well.

  “What color were your eyes before the accident?” I ask without thinking. I’ve been wondering about it for too long, and I’m unable to ignore my curiosity any longer.

  “Brown,” he says without hesitation. “I thought it was weird at first…” He shrugs. “That my new eyes are nearly the same color as the old ones.”

  “It’s fate,” I declare, and he laughs.

  “Fate…or biology. It turns out, over fifty percent of the world’s population has brown eyes.”

  “Maybe,” I nod. “But these aren’t just brown. These are something special.”

  Ansel slips his fingers under my chin and leans down to press a soft kiss against my cheek. His next words brush across my skin. “A muse, a true muse, changes you forever. When you find your Venus, she alters your art and your soul in such a way that there is no going back.”

  My heart flutters and flips inside of my chest, and goose bumps roll up my spine and arms and neck in disquieting waves.

  My eyes flick to his lips, and before I know it, without rational thought or reason or anything but letting feelings and fate guide me, I stand up on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his.

  Gently, tenderly, softly, at first, but quicker than it started, the moment consumes me, and I lose sight of where we are or what we’re doing. My lips turn gluttonous when he slides his tongue into my mouth to dance with mine, and the power of it all has me balling my fists into the leather of his jacket.

  When the kiss grows deeper, I moan against his mouth.

  He slips his hands into my hair, and everything solid in my body melts into him.

  This kiss, this fucking kiss, I don’t want it to end.

  Suddenly, the sounds of shoes resonate against the tile floor, and I’m yanked back to the present. To the fact that we’re not alone. To the reality of our very public display.

  Shit.

  I pull away from Ansel to find two female employees walking into the room, completely oblivious to us and our activities as they talk quietly about setting up a new display.

  My lips tingle, and I lift my hand to touch them with my fingertips. It’s like I can still feel his mouth on mine. I can still feel his kiss.

  But also, fuck, what was I thinking?

  I shouldn’t have done that.

  I shouldn’t have just up and kissed him like that.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” I whisper, and Ansel grabs the flesh of my upper arms to steady me.

  “It’s okay, Indy.”

  I shake my head, and he nods.

  I stare up at him, trying to find reason in this situation, but the only thing I want to do is taste his lips again, and my heart and mind respond with fervor, racing a mile a minute. But he doesn’t give me any more time to get lost in confusion and doubts.

  “Now,” he says and holds out his hand. “It’s time to show you my favorite Monet. Well, my favorite Monet that’s at the Met.” He winks, and just like that, we’re back to simply walking through the museum together.

  Casual. Laid-back. No pressure.

  I just wish someone would explain that to my tingling lips and racing heart.

  Ansel

  She kissed me. Again.

  But this time, she was sober.

  Strong and intoxicating, the power of her kiss was enough to pull me and my body right into action without any trouble.

  I wanted to ask her if she felt it too.

  If she is just as high off me as I am her.

  I wanted to ask her how she can still be in a relationship with another man when there is this undeniable connection between us. This strong, palpable magnetic pull that seems to vibrate from my body to hers. From my heart to hers.

  But in a matter of seconds, the spell was broken and her guard was back up, and I had to revert my focus to damage control. Her mind was already off to the races, most likely spinning with uncertainty and guilt and doubt, but I refused to let her fall into a tailspin.

  I don’t know what this is, but I know it isn’t some flimsy attraction that would end after a careless night of sex.

  I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.

  Whatever this is, it’s different. It’s special. It’s fucking real.

  But Indy isn’t ready to face all of that.

  All I can do right now is avoid doing something that will push her away…and wait. Wait for her to see what I do, for her to realize the magic between us isn’t going away.

  Luckily, I was able to do just that. After that fucking incredible kiss, instead of saying all of the things I really wanted to say, I started talking about art again and took her to see my favorite Monet.

  She thawed out around the edges, and the more I teased and joked with her, the more she smiled and laughed, and eventually, we were back to being us.

  When the museum announced it would be closing in ten minutes, I convinced Indy I could feed her the best fucking tacos she’s ever tasted from Tacombi, and she didn’t hesitate to go along with the plan that led us back to my house. Eating takeout tacos.

  “Shit,” she mutters, and I glance away from a rerun of Parks and Rec to find Indy swiping away a blob of sour cream from her shirt.

  A laugh bubbles up from my throat, and she tosses a glare in my direction.

  “Don’t say a word.”

  “I didn’t say anything.” I bite back my smile and lift a taco-less hand in the air, raising my proverbial white flag.

  “You want to, though,” she retorts with a giggle and a scowl. “You’re probably already thinking about what you can use for a makeshift bib.”

  Bingo. I
’ve already spotted the extra napkins on the coffee table.

  I grin, and she nudges my arm with her elbow. “Just forget this happened, okay?”

  “Just like that time you spat bacon all over my kitchen?” I tease. “Should I forget it just like that?”

  “I’m ignoring you.” Another nudge to my arm, only a little harder this time, and Indy grabs one of the napkins on the table and slips it into her shirt like a bib. “There, is that better?”

  “Perfect.” I grin. “But it might be smart if we invested in actual bibs. I mean, surely, that would prevent a lot of ruined shirts…”

  “Shut up.” She rolls her eyes on a giggle but focuses back on her tacos.

  It doesn’t take long before we’ve finished our takeout and the inevitable food coma has set in. We lounge lazily on the couch, and Indy flips through the television stations in a fruitless search to find something to watch that isn’t a reality show or commercials.

  I fucking hate television, but when it comes to Indy, I’m finding I’ll do just about anything if it means spending more time with her.

  “Wait a minute…” Indy pauses, and I glance in her direction to find her pointing toward the bench by the window. “What is that?”

  “A painting.”

  It’s her painting. The one she painted for me in my studio and called my rainbow.

  She squints her eyes. “Why is that out here?”

  “Because I like it.”

  “Oh my god.” Indy groans. “Anyone who walks into your house can see it.”

  “So?” I don’t bother to tell her that she has nothing to worry about. No one but she and Bram come inside my house.

  She scowls and stands to her feet, striding right toward the painting. Once the canvas is gripped between her fingers, she turns toward me and raises it into the air. “You need to hide this somewhere.”

  I chuckle at her ridiculousness. “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do,” she refutes. “A closet, under your bed, the trash. For the love of God, put this thing away.”

  “Don’t even think about putting that in the trash, Indy.”

  She raises a challenging brow. “It’s my painting, and I’ll do whatever I want with it.”