by Anna Todd
He turns back to the paper, and his pencil marks begin to take shape—the shape of your chin? you think.
You know he’s right. Your questions haven’t been thought provoking, or even a bit interesting. “Fine, fine. Music—what type of music do you like?”
His head falls back. “Oh, come on,” he moans, his heavy voice dramatically drawling out every syllable.
“Hey!” you snap. “Music is a very important part of someone’s soul. You can find out nearly everything about a person by knowing the type of music they listen to.”
His laugh is soft. He raises his head and turns around to face you. His eyes find yours. “Soul?”
The way he says the word makes you shiver, despite the warm air flowing through the open windows into the room. You shift on your stool, trying to distract yourself from the goose bumps covering your skin. There’s absolutely no reason for one word, one syllable, to have you reacting like this.
“Answer the question, Daniel,” you say with a mock-stern expression, and he shakes his head, a wide grin covering his face. His lips have a slight purple tint to them, and, once again, his smile is contagious.
“Yes, ma’am.” He turns his stool back to the easel, facing away from you. “I like the old stuff, like Morrissey. But mostly blues; you know, Guthrie, Lead Belly.”
His answer doesn’t surprise you. You wouldn’t have pegged him for someone who listens to the Hot 100, but still, you’re impressed.
His pencil marks are beginning to take shape, and you can’t believe you’re letting a stranger draw you. You’re impressed once more when you notice the resemblance between you and the barely-there drawing. He hasn’t done much yet, but the shape of your face is beginning to come together, and you’re instantly aware of the talent within him. You continue to watch him move; the lines and marks begin to take shape, and it’s . . . fascinating.
“What about you? What music do you like?” he asks, and you realize you haven’t spoken since he answered.
“I like it all, really; I’m familiar with Morrissey—” you begin, but he interrupts.
“More than just ‘Suedehead,’ right?”
Morrissey’s most well-known song; to prove yourself you nod, even though Daniel is still facing the easel. “My dad and I used to listen to every song, except ‘Suedehead,’ actually. He hated that one.” You feel warm at the memory of your dad lip-synching every word of every album by the rocker.
“You’re making me feel seventy instead of twenty-nine,” he teases, and turns around to smile at you. You pegged him for at least twenty-five, but his skin is just so clear, his smile is so radiant, that you assume he’s had it pretty easy. He doesn’t look like someone who’s ever known what it’s like to suffer; you don’t see any trace of hardship on this man’s face. Think positive—you can’t judge him for having a good life. You stop yourself from going farther down the negative tunnel that’s your own mind.
Daniel’s sketch has gone from a half-moon to the shape of your face. He shades your mouth quickly, drawing the curve of your bottom lip. When you sketch, you typically begin with facial features and form the shape of the face last.
“Are you out of questions already? I have a few that I would like to ask you.” His tone is so innocent, and the way his accent plays at each word makes him seem all the more dangerous. “You know, research for my work and all.”
He’s quite the charmer. He turns back to you, leaving his work in progress. The class is still moving along; the students in the row in front of you have completed half of the bowl of fruit already. Your page is blank, but you’re more fascinated by Daniel than by capturing some produce on a page.
You’re curious about the questions he has for you; even though asking the questions gave you an advantage in the game, you can’t help but wonder what he will ask.
Noticing that his eyes are focused on your mouth, you wave your hand in the air. “Ask away, Daniel.”
“I like the way it sounds when you say my name,” he says, as if it’s the most simple of statements.
You quietly gasp without meaning to, and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, studying you still. You can’t think of a single thing to say in response. You stare at the way his perfect teeth press into his lip. It’s unfair that he’s so attractive. Plus, not only is he attractive but he’s interesting, a quality you haven’t come across in many people.
A few seconds pass, and he finally turns his eyes away from your mouth and up to your eyes. “What makes you happy?”
His question floats through the air, unexpected and unassuming. You look away from his blue eyes to process it. You’re grateful when he turns back around to the paper and lets you think through your answer. What makes me happy? What makes me happy? you ask yourself over and over, trying to sift through all the things in your life. You like school, but you actually hate it because you feel like you’re forcing yourself to choose a career before you know what you want to do. You like your apartment complex, but what kind of answer would that be? Um, my apartment building makes me happy? No thanks.
You care about your parents even though you barely speak to them. Your mom’s new husband is nice; your mom calls every once in a while, when she can break away from catering to him and his colleagues. You haven’t spoken to your father in years. You don’t have any siblings, and Los Angeles hasn’t blessed you with any friendships yet.
“I . . .” You continue to search for something to say. “I . . . well, what makes me happy is . . .” You struggle to come up with one single thing. How is that possible? You’ve never been the cheeriest of people, but it’s not possible that you don’t have a single thing in your life that makes you happy.
Your difficulty with this makes you question nearly everything in your life.
When Daniel looks at you, you feel the heat in your cheeks. You’re embarrassed, even though you don’t really have a reason to be.
He seems to notice your discomfort and changes the subject. “What’s your favorite form of art? Do you prefer painting, sketching, music, acting, writing?”
He’s kind.
“Drawing. I like to write too, though I’m not good at it. I love music, but I don’t have any talent to create it. I like to sketch, though not bowls of fruit. I like landscapes the most, I guess I’d say. I use markers as my medium mostly. It’s odd, I know. Most people hate to use markers because they bleed, they leave pools of ink, but I prefer them to pencils. The colors are brighter, more alive, you know?”
You take a breath at the end of your lengthy babbling, and his eyes are lighter, focused on you.
“That was a long answer,” you breathe. “It counts as two.”
“No, no. It surely doesn’t.” He laughs and turns back to the easel. “What’s your favorite place you’ve ever visited?”
You haven’t done much traveling in your life. In fact, you never left the state you were born in until a few months ago when you came to California. “I haven’t traveled much,” you say, looking down at the toes of your dirty boots.
“Much, or at all?” Daniel asks.
“At all. My mom was supposed to take me to Disney World when I was ten, and when I was sixteen . . . my best friend and I tried to run away from the shitty town we’re from, but her car broke down, so we didn’t make it out.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him such specifics about your life, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He soaks them in, his hands still moving, creating.
“Seems like you made it out just fine.”
You can’t see his face, but you sense that he’s smiling.
“What about you—where’s your favorite place that you’ve been?”
He ponders your question for a few seconds. “Sweden. It’s cold as fuck, but I love it there. If it were warmer and I could get work there, I would never leave the place.”
You don’t know much about Sweden, and you realize that you probably don’t know much about anything compared to this foreign, well-traveled, insanely attractive,
well-spoken man. Instead of comparing your inadequacies to his achievements, you change the subject.
“What do you do for work?” you ask. You’re curious about this. He’s clearly talented in the arts, and he has the face and tall, lean body of a model.
Daniel clears his throat and doesn’t turn around to answer. His pencil shades in the crease of your bottom lip, and you find your fingers touching your lips.
“Different things. I’m sort of in between jobs right now,” he says. This makes you feel slightly better about not even owning a passport.
A cell phone begins to ring, and he reaches his hand into his pocket. He stares at the screen and swipes his long index finger across it. He slides his iPhone back into the pocket of his black jeans and picks the pencil back up. A few students stare at him pointedly, and he quietly apologizes for the interruption.
You look around the room, noticing that everyone’s fruit bowls are coming together nicely. You still haven’t drawn a single line, and you don’t really have the urge to do so.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Daniel asks.
You jerk your head toward the sound of his voice, surprised and intrigued. “Like where?”
“The beach just below us; have you been?” He points toward the sprawling view of the rocky shore through the window.
You shake your head and stand up from the stool. The class isn’t stimulating in the least bit, and you can’t remember the last time you had a thought-provoking conversation with anyone, let alone someone of the opposite sex.
You grab your bag from the floor and untie the drawstring. You take your sad little bundle of markers from the tray of the easel and toss them inside. You check the time on your cell phone and instantly regret it. It’s nearly three, and it’s a long slog back to your apartment.
Daniel’s still drawing, now working on the bridge of your nose. “I can’t, actually,” you sigh. “The last bus back to West Hollywood is at four, and the stop is farther from here than I knew. Sorry.” You’re disappointed that you don’t have the time to go with him. You’re having more fun talking to him in this art class than you’ve had in a long time.
“Bus? You took a bus all the way here from West Hollywood?” His mouth moves quickly when he speaks, like his hands when he sketches.
“Yeah; I didn’t realize how long it would take.”
“I can give you a ride back. I live in West Hollywood too.”
“It’s okay, it’s not that far.” You appreciate his offer and hope that he pushes for it again, but you don’t want to seem too eager to accept a ride from a stranger.
“Don’t be unfriendly,” he laughs, standing up from the stool. “It’s a long drive in a car, let alone a bus.”
You nod, agreeing without saying so. You would much rather sit in a car with him than have to pray to the gods for a seat on a bumpy, crowded bus. “What brings you all the way out here if you live in West Hollywood? Besides this rookie art class.”
“I like to get away from the city sometimes, and the beach here is my favorite on the entire coast of California.”
“Why is that?” you ask.
He tears from the pad the large white sheet with your half-drawn face on it and crumples it in his large hands. You’re shocked by this. You knew he hadn’t finished the sketch, but you didn’t expect him to destroy it. He tosses it into the nearest trash can, and you feel your face tighten into a scowl. He looks quizzical when he notices this; his eyes search your face, and you collect yourself. You force a gentle smile, one that you hope doesn’t come across as offended. It was his drawing, anyway, you tell yourself, you don’t have a reason to be upset. It’s not like you were thrilled with him drawing it in the first place, but you would have liked to see how it turned out.
“I like El Matador because it’s quiet and the waves aren’t very strong,” he says. “There’s these masses of rocks along the coast, and I like to sit there and drown out all the noise from LA. I love LA, but it’s nice to have some quiet, especially if I only have to drive an hour and a half to get it. . . .” His voice trails off, and you wish for a moment that you could get inside this stranger’s head. His hand is on his hip now, and his head is tilted to the side. He reaches his hand out for yours and you immediately pull back. You don’t like to be touched. You don’t know how to be touched. You know this isn’t normal, but you stopped trying to be normal a long time ago.
With a flick of his wrist, he’s grabbing your hand from behind your back. You want to push him away, but he smiles, and suddenly you’ve forgotten how to protest.
“Shall we?” He looks toward the door; his warm hand is holding your wrist like a parent does a child, and you try to ignore the stares of the other people in the room as you two leave. The instructor looks confused, but not a hint of annoyance appears on his wrinkled face. Daniel closes the door behind you and slides his hand down to lace his fingers through yours.
“Do you always hold hands with strangers?” you ask, not worried about sounding rude.
He huffs a quick breath and tightens his fingers around yours. Your palms are already sweating, and you’re embarrassed, overthinking every step you take, every sound you make.
“You aren’t a stranger; we’re friends. Remember?”
You roll your eyes and nod in agreement, even though you’re certain you’ll never see him again. When you step outside, the breeze from the coast washes over you, making you slightly more comfortable than you were moments ago. He leads you down the sidewalk toward the back of the row of white buildings.
Two women walk past you, and you watch as they completely ignore your presence and stare straight at Daniel. The shorter, pudgier woman’s eyes nearly bulge from her head, and she pulls on the other woman’s arm; a rush of whispers bursts from her mouth into the taller woman’s ear.
“Daniel!” the taller woman screeches, and drops her purse onto the gravel walkway. “Can we have a picture with you?”
Daniel tenses slightly, but it’s so slight that you aren’t sure it actually happened. He drops your hand and you watch, confused as hell, as he smiles kindly at the women.
Who is he? Why do they want a picture with him?
“I just loved you in Off the Main Road—my husband and I went to England for the summer and caught it. You were great.”
You have no idea what they’re talking about . . . but it hits you. He’s an actor. Of course he is. You look at his face, the delicate bridge of his nose, the sharp edge of his jawline. Of course he’s an actor.
“Thank you, I really appreciate that,” he tells them. He’s genuine in thanking them for their praises. The shorter woman asks for a picture alone, and she wraps her hand around his arm possessively. She looks at you, judgment clear in her dark eyes.
You don’t want to agree with her, but when you look down at your dirty boots, ripped jeans, and faded blouse, you do. You want to tell her to stop wondering what he sees in you because it’s nothing; he doesn’t see you or know you at all. You suddenly feel silly for allowing him to hold your hand, even as friends. Friends don’t hold hands. Hell, most lovers don’t even hold hands. Love has turned into horizontal bodies and lust-driven conversations, useless and undeserved promises, like those that have filled every relationship you’ve ever known.
You back away as the women continue to gush over him. He doesn’t look your way, not even once, as you disappear behind the building. You follow the gravel trail down to the shore. Moss-covered rocks line the edge of the water, and an overflowing trash can spills out the waste deposited in it by at least a hundred people. The water isn’t as loud as you’d imagined and the waves are soft, unassuming, as they kiss the sand-covered bay and seem to attempt to wash away the dirty rocks. The rocks don’t budge, though, no matter how hard the water tries to move them.
The beach is farther from the top of the hill than you thought. A large wooden staircase was built to make it easier for people to reach, but you’re slightly nervous as you step onto the stained wood
. The boards creak under your heavy steps, and you desperately try to understand what it is that he finds so beautiful about this beach. The staircase is wide enough for at least four people to walk down at once, and you force yourself to ignore the creaking, ignore the chipped paint and spray-painted tags on the wooden sheds settled in the rocky hill. You don’t see beauty here; you see dirt and damaged wood, slow waves and rocks.
A man runs past you, his bare chest gleaming with sweat. He’s confident as he takes the stairs up to the top of the hill. The wooden planks shake beneath your feet as his weight presses against them. You hadn’t noticed him until he reached you, and you quickly forget about him after he passes. You’re halfway down now; surely no one else makes such a big deal out of taking an unsteady staircase down to the water. You search your mind for something to think about other than the creaky steps and the actor. You don’t watch much television, and you haven’t seen a movie in a theater since before your mom became only a wife, no longer a mother.
When you moved, she pretended to be upset. She was worried that such a big city would swallow her only child. Why hadn’t you chosen a community college closer to her? she wondered out loud, almost every day for the first week or so. Two weeks later, she was showing you apartment listings in Los Angeles, asking if you had everything ready to go. You know deep down that she was eager for your move. She had become the type of mother who would trade you for a cheap pair of new cuff links for her beloved husband. That man had more cuff links than your mother had flaws. Needless to say, it was more than a drawerful.
The waves grow louder as you skip the last step and jump onto the sand. It’s not as solid as you expected it to be. Your boots sink into the loose sand, and a storm of dust clouds around your feet. You take another step, trying to find more solid ground. Next to a mud-covered rock, a flock of blackbirds pecks away at the carcass of a dead animal. How beautiful.
You check your phone again; it’s twenty minutes past three now, and you need to get to the bus stop by four, preferably with a few minutes to spare. You had a few minutes of relief when you thought you would be spared the long bus ride, but they were short-lived. That’s fine—you are fully capable of getting yourself back to your apartment.