More Than This

by Alexa Land

  After I used the facilities, I squinted at myself in the mirror above the industrial sink. My brown eyes were bloodshot, thanks to the contacts, and my dark hair was sticking up in every direction, so it was as bad as I’d thought. I washed my face and tried to tamp down my hair before squirting some toothpaste onto my finger and rubbing it around my mouth. That was pretty half-assed, but it’d have to do.

  Finally, I traded the contacts for my glasses and wondered what I’d been thinking when I went for those black, clunky Clark Kent frames. I stepped out of the small, no-frills bathroom with the intention of hurrying back across the warehouse and getting dressed. But then I looked around and muttered, “Holy shit.”

  Every surface of the warehouse had become a canvas for an enormous, abstract painting, from the cement floor to the twenty-foot-high corrugated metal walls and ceiling, which framed a massive skylight. It was absolutely extraordinary. The majority of it was white and a few shades of pale blue. Geometric shapes broke apart and cast long rainbows that appeared to dart in every direction before fading out in the distance.

  It was like being inside a diamond, or an enormous prism that was shot through with sunlight. That was really the only way to describe it. And actually, as soon as I saw it that way, the whole thing made sense somehow. It was a study in light, and it was so stunningly gorgeous that I almost couldn’t process it.

  I wandered to the center of the warehouse and turned in a circle. Sunlight flooded in from the skylight and from an open bay door at the back of the building, and somehow the light became a part of the painting, bringing it to life so that it almost seemed to sparkle like an actual prism.

  Ari was a genius. I knew that for a fact as I reveled in the beauty of what he’d created. It was a word that got thrown around way too much, but in this case, it was totally accurate.

  Talk about being underemployed. I wondered if it was frustrating for him, spending his days making coffee and smiling at customers, when something this extraordinary burned within him.

  After a few moments, I realized someone had spoken my name, and I turned toward the open doorway, which was big enough for a truck to drive through. Ari and Fig were outside, in a lovely, overgrown courtyard. The dog sat regally on a wrought iron chair, still in his little, fake tuxedo, and Ari stood at an easel.

  I felt a bit dazed as I joined them. Ari said, “Good morning. Fig is being a very good sport and sitting patiently while I paint his portrait. By the way, I made him scrambled eggs for breakfast. I hope that’s alright.”

  “That’s perfect. Thanks for doing that.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I sank onto a chair and told him, “Your painting in the warehouse is absolutely extraordinary.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t everyone tell you how great it is?”

  He said, “You’re the only person who’s seen it.”

  “In that case, let me be the first to tell you it’s gorgeous and brilliant. Where do you exhibit your work?”

  “I don’t. Painting is just something I do for me.”

  “I can understand that.” As I took in our surroundings, I asked, “What is this place?” The ground was comprised of worn, red bricks with moss as their mortar, and the roof was a wooden trellis, covered in flowering vines. Beyond the courtyard was a greenhouse, barely visible beneath the ivy that had almost completely claimed it.

  “A few decades ago, it was a commercial nursery. I’m pretty sure they grew houseplants. It had been abandoned for a long time before I moved in.”

  Ari glanced at the dog, then dabbed at the canvas. He was barefoot and dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, and his golden blond hair was adorably disheveled. It occurred to me that his home suited him perfectly, because it was beautiful, quirky, and absolutely one of a kind. But I kept that observation to myself, in case he didn’t realize how extraordinary this place was and thought I was just comparing him to an old warehouse.

  He tilted his head as he studied the canvas. Then he put down his brush and easel, turned to me with that flawless smile of his, and asked, “Can I make you breakfast? I should warn you that I’m a terrible cook. But I have some pancake mix, and it’s pretty hard to screw that up.”

  “Please don’t go to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble. I love cooking, even if I’m bad at it.”

  Right about then, I realized I was sitting around in nothing but Christmas underwear. I’d been so distracted that I’d forgotten all about it. I murmured, “Um, I should get dressed.”

  “Okay. Meet me in the kitchen when you’re done.” Surprisingly, he gestured at the greenhouse when he said that.

  I stood up and clasped my hands in front of my boxers while Ari turned the painting toward Fig and asked, “Do you like it?” If he thought it was odd that my dog quite literally smiled at him, he hid it well. He showed me the canvas next and asked, “What do you think?”

  I laughed delightedly and exclaimed, “That’s fantastic!” He’d painted Fig’s exact likeness, and he’d put him on a red velvet throne with a golden crown sitting askew over one ear. He’d also traded the tuxedo for a purple and gold suit fit for a king.

  “It’s a present for you,” he said, as he returned it to the easel. “I used acrylic paint, so it won’t take long to dry.”

  “Thank you. I’ll cherish it.”

  I returned to the makeshift bedroom and got dressed, minus the tie and jacket, because that was a bit much. Then I rolled back the sleeves of my white dress shirt as I went to join Ari and Fig.

  The greenhouse did, in fact, house a kitchen. It was comprised of things that all seemed to have started life in commercial settings, including a huge cooktop, which looked like it had come from a fifties-style diner. A rolling cart acted as a center island and prep surface, and his fridge was a tall, refrigerated case from a convenience store, with a glass door and the words ‘Drink 7up’ displayed on a panel at the top. An industrial sink and metal shelving crowded with an eclectic assortment of pots, pans, dishes, and gadgets completed the space.

  All of that was pretty unusual, but the fact that it was in an overgrown greenhouse was fascinating. With the exception of the double doors at the front of the structure, the entire building was engulfed in ivy, and I murmured, as I looked all around me at the glass walls and ceiling, “I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Ari grinned as he dumped some pancake mix into a big bowl. “I used to try to fight the ivy, but now I’ve made peace with it. Well, more or less. I still climb up on the roof once a month to give it a haircut, so a little sunlight can get through.”

  He turned on the faucet and quickly jabbed the bowl under the stream. Then he looked to see how much water had landed inside and did it again. After he whisked up the mixture, he stirred in an entire pint of blueberries, ran a stick of butter over the flat-top, and poured two huge dollops of batter onto the hot grill. The pancakes were the size of dinner plates.

  Ari watched them carefully, bending down so he was eye level with the grill. Once bubbles appeared on the surface, he smiled at me and said, “Now for the fun part.” He grabbed a metal pizza paddle from the shelves, used it like a giant spatula, and tossed a pancake in the air. When it landed perfectly, face-down on the griddle, he threw his hands up and yelled, “Yes!” He repeated the process with the other pancake. When it landed face-down too, he did a little dance and exclaimed, “Two for two! Did you see that? My success rate is usually around twenty percent. You must be my lucky charm!”

  I’d already thought he was adorable. After that, I decided I needed Ari in my life like I needed air.

  We brought the finished pancakes, a bottle of syrup, and some coffee back out to the courtyard. Fig beat me to joining Ari on the loveseat, so I sat across from them. Since we were eating on our laps and my pancake actually hung over the edge of my plate, I wasn’t sure how to approach it. Ari solved the problem by picking his up with both hands and taking a bi
te out of it. Then he asked, “Is it okay if I give Fig some?”

  “Sure. He always eats people food. My aunt tried to give him dog food once because she decided it would be healthier for him, and he acted like she’d committed a crime against humanity. It was a month before he’d even be in the same room as her.”

  “Tell me more about your aunt,” Ari said. “What was she like?”

  “Roz was a wonderful person. I’d describe her as patient, loving, and full of joy. She was always singing or humming, and she taught me to sing, dance, and play several instruments from the time I was four years old. Music was a part of her.”

  I took a sip of coffee and continued, “We’d often make a stage with bedsheets as curtains, line up all my stuffed animals as our audience, and perform numbers from our favorite films. This is Rosalind Vale we’re talking about, by the way, star of over thirty Hollywood musicals, so it was pretty spectacular.

  “When I was a bit older, we’d perform plays that I wrote. They were terrible, but she always tried to tell me they were the most brilliant things she’d ever read. It was just the two of us for most of my life, and she was everything to me, my best friend, my teacher, my mom…” My voice broke on that last word, and I turned my head to study the brick wall that separated the courtyard from the street, so Ari wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

  He said softly, “I’m sorry, Griffin. I shouldn’t have made you talk about this.”

  “No, it’s fine. I have so many wonderful memories of her, and I’m glad I get to share them with you.”

  All of my emotions were right at the surface, in part because it was just a day after Roz’s birthday and the anniversary of her passing. I really needed to keep it together, so after a pause, I changed the subject by asking, “Do you have any plans today?”

  “Yes. I have a date with a cute guy this evening.” My disappointment must have shown on my face, because he quickly added, “I’m talking about you, Griffin. We made plans to go to dinner tonight.”

  Oh hell, what was wrong with me? Now he probably thought I’d forgotten our date. I stammered, “Right, I knew that. I just forgot it was Friday for a minute.”

  I couldn’t be less suave if I tried, but he just took it all in stride. “It’s such a beautiful day,” he said. “Instead of waiting until tonight and going out to dinner, what do you think about packing a picnic and spending the day together? We could go to the park, or the beach, or wherever you want.”

  “That sounds perfect. Want me to drive?”

  “Yes please. I don’t have a license.”

  “Okay. I just need to pick up my car at my Aunt Lil’s house, then go home and change.”

  “I’ll make up a picnic basket while you do that.”

  We agreed that I’d pick him up at noon, and after breakfast, he called me a cab. When it arrived, my totally disloyal dog pressed himself against Ari’s leg and refused to come with me, so Ari said, “I don’t mind if Fig hangs out here until you get back.”

  I frowned at the dog, then said, “Okay. Sorry about that.”

  “Seriously, it’s no problem.” He gave me a hug and said, “See you soon, Griffin.”

  I already knew I couldn’t just pick up my car without spending a few minutes visiting with Lilian and Nancy. But as soon as I pulled up in the cab, they both rushed outside and wanted to know why I was in the same outfit as the night before. When I told them about spending the night with Ari, they dragged me into the house and peppered me with questions. Then they tried to pin me down on when exactly they’d get to meet him, but I stalled for time. I didn’t know much about dating, but taking someone to meet the family after two days seemed like a bad idea.

  By the time I left Bel Air with the portrait loaded in the back seat, I was already running late, and traffic sucked, even though I knew all the shortcuts and back roads. I glanced at the time as I finally pulled onto my block and decided I could still make it if I rushed while showering and getting dressed. Fingers crossed that I actually had something decent to wear, despite my dire laundry situation. I wasn’t quite sure what that would be, though. My clothes were chosen for comfort, not style, since most of my time was spent at home with my nose in either a novel or a notebook.

  Surprisingly, the gate was open when I reached the foot of my driveway. Well, if it was going to malfunction, at least it got stuck in the open position, instead of locking me out. And it actually saved me a couple of minutes waiting for it to do its thing, so I decided to take it as a win.

  I rounded a curve near the top of the driveway and slammed on the brakes. An expensive, silver sports car was parked at an angle right in front of the house, and the front door was open. What the hell? The car wasn’t familiar, and it really didn’t look like something a burglar would drive. So, who on earth was in my home?

  After a quick debate, I decided against driving off and calling the police from a safe location. I just couldn’t stand the thought of leaving a stranger in my house while I tried to get help. Why did I have to short out everything electrical, making me probably the only twenty-four-year-old in L.A. without a cellphone?

  I cut the engine, ran up the driveway, and paused on the front porch. If I was lucky, maybe I’d have the element of surprise on my side. My heart was pounding as I slipped into the foyer and looked around. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. When I dashed into the living room and grabbed a fireplace poker to use as a weapon, the floor above me creaked.

  Someone was upstairs, in my bedroom.

  Fear trickled down my spine as I tried to decide whether to run to the kitchen and dial 9-1-1, or go upstairs to confront the intruder. I’d never thought of myself as a particularly brave person, but anger flared in me, and I headed for the stairs. Someone had invaded my home, and I wasn’t going to stand for that. By the time I went all the way back to the kitchen, they could run out the front door and get away, and I needed to know who was here and why they’d come. I took the stairs two at a time, then burst into my room with the poker drawn back like a spear as my heart tried to explode in my chest.

  I didn’t know what I’d expected to find, but it really wasn’t a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty in an impeccable suit and tie. He stood beside the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves at the back of the large room with an open book in his hand, and his posh English accent made him seem dignified when he said, “Well, this is awkward.”

  ‘Awkward’ wasn’t quite the word that came to mind. I tried to look tough, even as I gasped for air like a fish out of water, and demanded, “Who are you?”

  He smiled and approached me with his hand extended. “August Mayes. I’m glad to finally meet you, Griffin. Apologies for the intrusion. I became concerned when you didn’t return home last night, so I thought I should come inside and investigate. But now here you are, and you must think it terribly rude of me to be poking around like this.”

  I ignored the outstretched hand and snapped, “This goes way beyond rudeness.”

  “I suppose the thing to do would have been to step out, rather than allowing you to discover me in your home,” he said. “But the truth is I was distracted, and by the time I noticed the sound of your car’s engine, it was too late. That big Cadillac was already blocking the driveway. Upon further reflection, I probably should have waited for you downstairs. It’s a bit unseemly, loitering in your bedroom. But since you actually sleep in your home’s library, maybe it’s not quite as tawdry as it could have been.”

  The man stopped right in front of me, with his hand still extended as if he expected me to shake it. He seemed nervous, but tried to cover it with a smile. In his other hand, he still held one of my books, which turned out to be an antique volume of nursery rhymes. I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I needed to speak with you.” When it became clear I had no intention of shaking his hand, he withdrew it. Then he pointed at the fireplace poker and asked, “What do you intend to do with that, perforate me?”

  I narrowed my eyes and kept my
tone clipped as I said, “There’s an intruder in my home. I intend to defend myself with it.”

  “A bit superfluous, isn’t it? Kind of like taping a pocket knife to a great white shark.”

  “What are you talking about?” I lowered the poker a bit and stared at him. He was about three inches taller than I was, with a muscular build, and yet he seemed wary of me.

  “You’re already a weapon, mate. You could obliterate me with a flick of your wrist, and you and I both know it. Given that, I’m fully aware that it was daft to enter your home without permission.” None of that made a bit of sense to me. He continued, “But you’re quite the creature of habit, and I really was concerned when you didn’t come home last night. You weren’t at the home of your aunt’s friend Lilian either, though your car was there all night.”

  That was even creepier than finding him in my home. “How do you know so much about me?”

  He grimaced and muttered, “It’s going to sound quite sleazy when I admit I’ve been watching you.”

  I took a step back and held the poker in front of me. “You need to put that book down, and you need to leave.”

  He seemed surprised when he glanced at the book in his hand. “Right. Sorry. See what I mean about being distracted? I forgot I was holding that.” He returned to the shelves and put the book right where it belonged. Then he turned to me and asked, “Could we continue this conversation downstairs, preferably over a nice glass of whiskey? Although come to think of it, I didn’t see much of anything in your bar. No worries though, I can share.” He pulled a flask from his jacket and tried a hopeful smile.

  “So, let me get this straight,” I said. “You broke into my home, snooped around, and just admitted that you’ve been spying on me, and now you somehow think I’m going to sit down with you and drink whatever the hell you’re carrying in your pocket? Do you hear yourself?”

  The man sighed, then took a drink from the flask before putting it away. “I really have cocked this up. If I thought there was a chance in hell it’d work on you, I’d compel you to forget all of this, then start over by ringing your doorbell.”