by Mae, Amelia
“Not the point, Jane. What happened?”
There’s no point in lying to Kelvin or keeping things from him. We’re better than that.
“I got drunk and passed out on him,” I whisper. “I’m the fucking worst.”
“Did he do something to you while you were passed out?” Kelvin sounds like he’s out for blood.
“God no. He told me I needed to sleep and put me to bed. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what I remember him doing.”
“Well good.”
“He wouldn’t do that, Kelvin,” I tell him. I’m very sure of that. I don’t have to know Dylan very well to know that he wouldn’t take advantage of a drunk woman.
“He’s been trying to get ahold of you all day,” Kelvin continues. “Won’t tell me why.”
“Did you give him my number?”
“I don’t give out people’s numbers without their permission,” he says. “What else happened?”
“Nothing. He left a note saying that we needed to talk. That’s never good. I figured we could just let whatever was going on between us die a quick painless death.”
“So you just left? Without hearing what he was going to say?”
“I don’t need to hear him tell me that I was a drunken, slutty baby who he had to take care of all night, and he can’t figure out why he thought I was so special to begin with,” I lament.
“Jane, you’re special because you’re you,” he says kindly.
“You sound like a children’s after school special.”
“Fuck you,” he scoffs, “but I also love you.”
“I love you too. Thank you for checking up on me. It’s annoying, but I’m glad that you care.”
“So are you going to talk to Dylan?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I tell him.
“Jane…”
“Trust me. It’s better this way.”
12
Dylan
“What’d she say?” I ask Kelvin.
He just shakes his head. “She’s not gonna talk to you.”
“Fuck.”
I’d gone insane this afternoon when I got home from a meeting with Christian and found Jane’s note. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t handle it. And she was gone.
Realizing that I still didn’t have her number, I called Dean and demanded that he let me talk to Kelvin so I could at least get someone to tell me that Jane was okay. Now the three of us are standing here in my living room after I’ve just listened to Kelvin check on Jane over the phone.
“Just let me try,” I tell him.
“Don’t, Dylan. I know Jane. This isn’t how you approach her.”
“I know where she lives. I could just go over there.”
“That would be even worse,” he insists. “She’s embarrassed she got drunk in front of you and… I don’t know. Whatever else happened.”
“Nothing happened. She got drunk and fell asleep. That’s all. I put her in my bed and slept on the sofa,” I tell them. “Do you know the things that I’ve done while fucked up? Falling asleep on me is hardly something to get so worked up about.”
“Look, Dylan, maybe she’ll change her mind in the next few days, maybe she won’t. But you have to back off.”
“I just don’t get it.”
“Very few people do,” he says. “Jane… Jane has been fucked over by a lot of people. People who were supposed to have her back too. Her parents. Her ex-fiancee. Her best friend from school. She keeps people at arm’s length for a reason.”
My head is spinning with questions, but I don’t ask them. Not to Kelvin.
“You’re very protective of her,” I note.
Kelvin nods. “Jane and I were in a car wreck together when we were kids,” he tells me. “We were about twelve and both of us required lengthy hospital stays and the doctors kept us together for comfort.”
“Whoa.”
I didn’t realize that their bond was that intense.
“We’ve been inseparable since. She was the only person there for me when I came out to my family. I was the one who helped her figure out how to stay in the states when her ex dumped her. I’ll do anything for Jane.
“Her family fucked her over?” I ask. “How does that even work?”
“That’s her story to tell you. Not mine.”
True. “I’m glad she has you, Kelvin.”
“She’ll always have me.”
That’s reassuring.
“Dylan?” he starts.
I turn back to face him.
“Don’t give up on her yet, yeah?” he asks, “She likes you.”
He gives me a quick once-over.
“Can’t imagine why.”
I laugh.
“Jane wants a lot of things that she’s afraid to ask for,” he continues. “She’s so self-conscious of how she comes off to other people. She’ll live holed up in that apartment for the rest of her life if we let her. Just..”
“I get it,” I tell him. “Thank, Kelvin.”
“You know, she takes classes at the community center in Valley Village on Thursday nights. Figure drawing. If you just, you know, happen to be in the neighborhood.”
“Tell me how that’s better than showing up at her house right now?” I wonder.
“First of all, it’s on Thursday, which is several days from now, which will give the sting of embarrassment a few days to wear off. Secondly, Jane will be doing something that she’s phenomenally good at, so she’ll be a little more sure of herself. And thirdly, I know that she wants to see you again,” he tells me. “Sure I can’t guarantee that I’m not wrong and that she won’t see you and run away. But…”
That’s not a terrible plan. I suppose I can pretend to spot her coming out of class en route to somewhere else.
Or…
“Figure drawing, you said?”
13
Jane
I get my laundry and lug it upstairs, plop the basket on the couch and start folding. Dylan’s shirt is on top of the pile. I’ve washed his scent out of it.
I’ve had this vision of the life I wanted out here in Los Angeles. The people I wanted to know and the scene that I desperately wanted to be a part of. And last night, I got a taste of it.
And it turns out that I can’t handle it.
I stare at that map on the wall. The one where I’m supposed to color in the countries. By now, I thought that the map would be more colorful, but it’s a mass of white.
It probably always will be.
Maybe it’s time to take it down.
***
The next few days are hell.
I mean, nothing really happens. Work is totally uneventful. I make some progress on my graphic novel. I even break out some oil paints and start a new canvas, which makes my whole apartment smell like paint, but whatever.
It’s Dylan. He’s on my mind all the time, and I can’t seem to think of anything else.
As is evident when I hand over the vodka cranberry I’ve just made to a young woman waiting patiently at the bar.
“Miss? I don’t think this has any vodka in it,” she says sweetly. “It tastes like straight cranberry juice.”
I shake some sense into myself.
“Right. Sorry. I’ll make you another.”
It’s not the first cocktail I’ve messed up today, but as my shift is over in another ten minutes, hopefully, it’ll be my last.
I sigh. Did I make the right call, leaving like that? Should I have stayed until he got back and apologized to his face? Am I now some story that he tells his buddies over a few drinks; the legend of the shy girl who got drunk and passed out half-dressed after making a sloppy, horny idiot of herself?
The last ten minutes crawl by, but when they finally do and I see Kelvin coming in for his shift, I practically cheer in relief.
“You’re going to your art class tonight, right?” he asks me after we exchange usual pleasantries.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I’m not feeling super great r
ight now. I might skip it.”
As I make my way to the employee hutch for my purse, Kelvin cuts me off.
“You can’t. You have to go.”
“No I don’t,” I say, startled. “It’s not like it’s for a degree or anything. It’s a community center art class. No one will care if I’m not there.”
“But… you love that class.”
He says it strangely. Like that wasn’t what he intended to say, but it was the first believable thing.
“It’s an okay art class. Mostly old ladies who don’t know what to do with their free time. Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?”
“You have to be there tonight, Jane,” he orders.
“Why? What’s happening?”
“You just… just go to your class. You’ll see.”
“I’ll see what?” I ask.
Kelvin smiles awkwardly, so I know he’s up to something.
“What’s going on? Please just tell me. I hate surprises.”
Kelvin sighs, relenting. “Dylan’s going to be there.”
“What?” I snap. “Dylan’s going to my art class?”
“No, I…”
“Why can’t we just let this die?” I groan. “I don’t want to rehash that embarrassing night all over.”
“You don’t want to see him again?” Kelvin asks. “I mean, he wants to see you. Obviously. He’s fucking jumping through hoops to find you.”
I shrug. Ugh. I’d love to see Dylan again, but I’m also terrified to see Dylan again. My heart is racing and I’m entering shut-down mode.
“Just go to your class like normal,” Kelvin says, “and go for a coffee with Dylan afterward. Just coffee. You can handle a coffee, Jane.”
“Coffee,” I repeat. He’s right I can do coffee.
We’ll go to Joe’s, which is near my class and it’ll be the evening, so it’ll be pretty empty. I can order a decaf latte, so I don’t get too weird and jumpy. I nod.
“I can handle coffee.”
Kelvin gives me a hug and whispers in my ear, “When are you going to realize how amazing you are, Jane? It’s like you can’t believe that someone would actually want to get to know you.”
I sigh. That’s… too much to unpack right now.
Kelvin lets me go so that I can run my report and start cashing out for the day. I watch as he sets up the bar the way he likes it. He finds the bar-back and asks him to change the Budweiser keg. He flirts with vodka cranberry girl and her friends before greeting some middle-aged men in for happy hour.
It’s all so easy for Kelvin. People, that is.
I head home and go through my closet, looking for something to wear that is the perfect combination of flattering and looking like I’m not trying too hard.
The great thing about this art class is that it’s mostly older people, retirees and hobbyists. No one takes it too seriously and there’s no one that I feel that I have to impress.
Until today.
If Dylan’s going to be there, I want to look put together, but not too fussy. Jeans will work. And I throw on a comfortable but cute off-the-shoulder tee shirt that I cut apart and reconstructed myself. I actually smile at my refection in the mirror. If you didn’t know that I was a socially anxious weirdo, you might actually think that I was a chill, pretty girl and want to get to know me. Like Kelvin said.
And then I wait.
Because the class doesn’t start for another few hours.
Huh. I thought this would take longer.
I decide to take the time and work some more on my graphic novel, pouring over some of the work that I’ve already done. I’ve drawn my protagonist receiving her first sketchbook and set of charcoal pencils from her grandparents after her parents rescind guardianship of her to them.
Not far from my own origin story, but that’s hardly the point.
And from there, my protagonist, who I’ve tentatively named Margot, starts drawing her fantasy world..
But it isn’t a fantasy world of princesses and dragons or sword fights like some Disney movie. It’s a world in which Margot has a group of close friends. She has a career that she loves.
And I may have just started drawing Margot’s boyfriend.
Well, I’ve started drawing Margot drawing her boyfriend in her fantasy land. He’s quite tall. Much taller than she is. And he’s got broad shoulders and he’s pretty built.
I start drawing in his five o’clock shadow when I realize that I’ve just basically drawn Dylan.
I drop the charcoal pencil and take a deep breath. I feel like I just got caught creeping on someone. I debate tearing out the page and throwing it away, but I decide not to.
Dylan will never know that he’s part of Margot’s fantasy world.
I close the sketchbook and look at my phone. Fuck, I’m going to be ten minutes late for the class.
Even though it’s a sticky hot summer evening, I walk to the class and hope that I won’t be too gross by the time I get there. I slip into the room seamlessly and no one notices that I’m a few minutes late.
I look around. There are about eight students in the class tonight and none of them are Dylan. I’m equal parts relieved and disappointed as I find a space and set up my supplies. The room is generally quiet as we wait for the instructor to come in and introduce the model.
Nine times out of ten, the model poses nude. It’s tremendously awkward. For me. The model is usually fine with it. But occasionally, we’re only focusing on the model’s face or upper body, so they can remain kind of half-clothed.
I have no idea what we’re in for tonight.
Finally, the instructor, a lovely older hippie woman named Nadine, who wears gauzy headscarves and cures everything with cannabis oil, finds her way to the front of the class.
“Thank you everyone for being here tonight,” she says, clapping her hands. “We have a very special model here with us and I’m going to remind you that in addition to turning off your social torture devices, there is to be absolutely no photography or anything like that in here out of courtesy.”
Nadine waves someone into the room wearing a white bathrobe. A man. A blonde man with reddish scruff and blue eyes.
Dylan.
Dylan is the model.
Dylan is going to model for my art class.
Naked.
“This is Dylan,” she says.
Dylan waves and winks at the student. Some of the older ladies wave at him. I almost expect someone to wolf-whistle at him, but thankfully no one here is that immature.
Nadine clears her throat, indicating that it’s time for Dylan to remove his robe. He undoes the sash.
“No!”
Every head in the room turns to face me.
Oh, God.
“Jane, is there a problem?” Nadine asks.
“Um… no. No problem,” I stammer. “Sorry. I thought I saw a spider or something.”
Nadine shoots an apologetic look over to Dylan. “So we’re free to start then, yes?”
I nod hastily and busy myself with arranging my pencils. Anything except looking at Dylan until it’s completely inevitable.
And when my eyes do finally meet his, I swear he winks at me.
I drop my pencil on the ground, and I swear nothing has ever made more noise in a silent room. Again, all eyes on the clumsy weirdo.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Dylan nods at Nadine and drops his robe.
He’s wearing boxer briefs.
I almost tear up in relief. Not that I don’t want to see Dylan naked again, but I absolutely don’t want a roomful of witnesses watching me have a very visceral reaction to seeing his body. His pierced dick. I smirk, despite myself.
I like being the only one here who knows about that.
“Dylan will hold each pose for approximately twenty minutes,” Nadine tells us. “We’re going for realism here, so no exaggerated lines. No giving him extra abs or anything.”
Dylan smirks.
“Not that you need it, honey
,” she adds, playfully. “And try to look at Dylan’s form and recognize what makes him unique. Really look at him.”
I know that she means it in an artistic, insightful way, but it quite frankly, is still an invitation to stare at a fucking gorgeous man for ninety minutes. Obviously, we’re never allowed to touch the model, but we are allowed to take our sketchpads in hand and move in as close as we need to.
There are a few pieces of furniture in the room for the models to use to vary their poses. A chair. A stool. A small sofa for recumbent poses. Dylan’s first pose is standing, neutrally, with his arms at his sides. Harmless enough.
I position myself behind Dylan to spare myself the awkwardness of his gaze. I focus on his back. The wide expanse of his shoulder blades. The way his waist tapers in. The dip in the curve of his spine. The tattoo of a sparrow on the back side of his left ribcage.
It’s always odd, drawing a model like this.
On one hand, we have to almost be like doctors and look at the body completely objectively so as not to get too attached.
On the other, we’re artists, tasked with capturing their spirit. Their humanity. Their essence. So, we have to get attached to them.
Finding that balance on a professional level is challenging.
It takes a few poses, but I get comfortable staring at Dylan’s body. But eventually, I need his face. So I gather my supplies and move around to where he is facing. When he notices me invading his space, he smiles. Only slightly, though, so as not to disrupt anyone else. I stay expressionless, however. Or at least, I try to. My ears are probably pink, and my skin is hot.
I trying desperately hard not to look into his eyes, but he’s gazing so intently at me that I can’t help it. The corner of his mouth turns up into a furtive smirk. Like he’s trying to say, ‘Jane, you haven’t moved your pencil in three whole minutes because you’re gawking at my body.’ Or worse. ‘Jane, you haven’t drawn anything because you’re staring deeply into my eyes like a lovesick puppy.’
I search his face for the judgement that I’m convinced in there, but I don’t think that I see it.