“Holy hotness, Love!” I could see the pulled furrow of his brow as he analyzed the image held between his fingers. “I thought you were done with your art imitating art phase.” He didn’t look to me as he spoke, but continued dragging his eyes over every inch of the drawing, the paper rustling in his grasp, echoing the choppy, embarrassed breath that filtered out of me. I thought for a moment that I should dig out my inhaler, because my breathing really had been all over the place lately.
Ian’s gaze slid across the shoulders, both bare and broad, two mountains hovering powerfully over a solidly formed chest. The variance in pressure of my pencil markings created six distinct dips and valleys across the muscled abdominals, flanked on either side by the perfection of man in the form of that strong, etched V which I had yet to learn the proper name of. Crosshatching detailed the fabric denim material that so greatly contrasted the smooth, almost polished skin. It was only shoulders, a torso, and a little bit of jean clad hips, but it took Ian a good minute to truly take it all in.
“Thought you were done with your statues, Jules,” he said, finally. “Though I’ve never seen a statue wearing jeans before.”
“It’s not of a statue.” I pulled the paper from his grasp and shoved it back into my folder.
“You’re telling me that man exists in reality? Because if he does, I might just have to call Joshua and tell him not to come over. I think a man like that is worth meeting.”
I rolled my eyes, knowing what a flirt Ian could be, and also knowing that he’d never toss Joshua aside that quickly. He was all he talked about since their date last night.
“You’ve already met him. He spent all day in front of your lens, Ian.”
“Leo Carducci looks like that under his finely tailored suit? No way.” Ian laughed, and then said, “He’s all GQ on the outside, Sports Illustrated underneath, huh? Had I known, I would have suggested something a little different for our shoot.”
“Whatever, Ian.” I lifted a pillow from the head of my bed and draped it over my sketchpad, another layer of protection from Ian. I contemplated heaving the nightstand, dresser, and beanbag chair from the corner of the room on top, too, but that would have been overkill. “How’d it go anyway?”
“Amazeballs,” he replied, pushing off his knees to stand. He collected our dinner from the dresser and continued talking as I followed him out into our makeshift dining room, which really was just a card table shoved against the kitchen wall with two mismatched chairs tucked underneath. When you were a college student that lived in a 900 square foot loft and ate off of an actual table rather than a cardboard box, you earned the right to call it a dining room. “That man really is gorgeous, Jules. It’s funny, because he obviously knows it, or at least he knows his body well. There wasn’t a single pose or angle where he looked anything but absolutely comfortable in his own skin. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought he had experience modeling.”
I didn’t doubt that. I was sure Leo knew how to use his good looks to his advantage. And if these pictures were to be utilized for some spread that might help him find a significant other, I bet he turned on the charm full scale. Put his best face forward. He didn’t strike me as a model necessarily, but definitely someone who deserved to have their likeness grace the most famous business magazine in the country. Or a life-size poster in my room. That too.
For a moment it felt silly to even think that I had the right to try to depict someone as beautiful as him on paper. Looks like that couldn’t be recreated. A photograph would probably come close, but not much could do him justice. My pictures probably made him look more like Elmer Fudd than the literal Adonis he truly was.
“So that drawing.” Ian extended an arm to full length and pulled down three ceramic bowls from the top shelf of our kitchen cabinet. “Is that all imaginative sketching, or did you have something real to go off of? Because if you did...” he said as he crisscrossed a fork and a spoon to create tongs and heaped a generous portion of chicken chow mein into my bowl, “...if you actually saw that in real life, well, I’m not sure how you’re alive and sitting here right now. Because that is the definition of drop dead gorgeous.”
“You don’t need to remind me.” There was enough food here to feed an army, so I didn’t feel guilty as I stacked on more than could possibly fit into my stomach. It all looked and smelled so good that I had to at least take one bite of each entree offered.
“You’re right, I don’t need to remind you. You have that very detailed drawing to do that.”
Three swift knocks pulsed through our front door and Ian instantly dropped his bowl onto the counter before racing to answer it, leaving his dish to wobble like a spinning top, drunkenly slowing to a stop. Giddiness sprung from his feet in a bounce like that of a skipping child. Or Tigger. Actually much more like Tigger, and I thought for a second I heard him call out “TTFN” over his shoulder.
Ian really liked this Joshua guy, and I loved what it did to him.
I really liked what little I knew of Leo, and look what that had done to me. There was no excitable lightheartedness here. There was just a two by three foot borderline-stalkerish portrait tucked between the sheets of my bed. But in all fairness, some people had blow up dolls in their beds. At least this was art.
It was amazing how art could do that—take something that would otherwise be labeled as creepy and twist it into something absolutely appropriate. No one questioned art. Plastic inflatable people, yes. But art? Not likely.
Who was I kidding? There was no way around it. It was weird that I’d spent all afternoon drawing a guy’s stomach without him even knowing. Maybe this was why I didn’t do relationships. Or relationships didn’t do me. Or I didn’t do anything other than draw.
It honestly scared the ever-loving crap out of me to even think about getting as excited as Ian was right now. Because what if Joshua ended up feeling differently? What if that hope of affection was never returned? What if instead of being the Winnie the Pooh to his Tigger, he got all Eeyore on him? What then? What would Ian be left with?
Oh bother.
It felt safer to stick to mediums where you could fabricate your own reality than to cling to people who could mess with the one you actually had.
“Joshua, this is Jules,” Ian spoke, breaking into my reverie. I got lost like that a lot, and was used to Ian pulling me back into the present.
An attractive guy with his brown hair shaved closely, almost to the scalp, on the sides and left several inches longer on the top offered me a sweet smile and then dove right in for the hug, completely bypassing the customary handshake. I could already tell I was going to like this guy. His body was just as warm as his gesture.
“Hey Jules,” he said, still encircling me in his thin, yet toned, arms. He leaned back enough so I could see his face. He had soft hazel eyes and rosy, angular cheeks. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, Joshua. Hungry? ‘Cause Ian pretty much ordered enough food to feed an entire Chinese dynasty.”
“Oh, starving,” Joshua said, peering over my shoulder to view the smorgasbord of options lining the breakfast bar. “Smells amazing.”
“Tastes that way, too. Mr. Wong sure knows how to get it right,” Ian joked. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that one, but I could tell he was eager to try it out on Joshua. He waited expectantly for some sort of recognition with a lifted brow.
“Hysterical,” Joshua approved. “Let’s have at it.”
“I’ll eat on the futon,” I offered, taking my bowl and fork from the counter to free up our “dining” room table for Ian and Joshua to enjoy, giving them a semblance of sought after privacy.
“I don’t think so,” Joshua insisted with a vehement shake of his head. “I’m not coming over here to kick you out of your well-earned place at the table. You two are family. I’m the new guy. I’ll eat on the futon.”
Ian bracketed his hands on Joshua’s shoulders, which surprised me because he wasn’t typically the touchy-feely type. I
mean, he was with his closest friends, but with the guys he’d dated in the past, he tended to be much more hesitant and reserved. Guarded even. “That’s awfully nice of you, Joshua, but one thing you’ll need to learn about being part of this family is that we don’t do the whole nicety thing, right Jules?”
“Yep,” I nodded. “We like to literally fight for the last cup of milk or the toy in the bottom of the cereal box.” Joshua laughed and I could tell it was authentic, not at all out of obligation. “No joke. Ian once dropkicked me to claim his right to shower in the bathroom first. I have the stitches to prove it.”
“Jules karate-chopped me for using her deodorant.”
“Well,” I groaned, balancing my bowl in my palm. Steam rose out of it, dancing in the air like an aromatic smoke. My stomach growled loudly once more. “You have to admit—that’s completely gross.”
Joshua pressed a hand to his stomach, slightly bent in laughter as he said, “Because I honestly don’t think I’d stand a chance against either of your ninja skills, how ‘bout a compromise and we share the futon.”
“Works for me,” Ian smiled.
“Me too.”
Dinner hit the spot. And so did the company and conversation. Learning about Joshua and his interest in cinematic filmography was a pleasant distraction from the constant thoughts of Leo—a flipbook of snapshotted slides flashing through my brain. Joshua was the oldest of four brothers and a New York resident from birth. With a dad as the head surgeon at NY Mercy Health and his mother a fully attentive, stay-at-home housewife, it truly did sound as though he not only had the perfect upbringing, but the perfect future laid out for him, too.
I loved watching Ian’s eyes spark with appreciation every time Joshua would say something new to reveal another, equally as attractive trait about him.
I loved it, and sort of hated it.
Or maybe I hated myself, because I could’ve had an experience practically parallel to this one had I just accepted Leo’s invitation to lunch. Seriously, what on earth was thinking? I was really stoopid. And no, not stupid, but stoopid, because that’s how dumb I was—I couldn’t even spell it right.
“Question,” I interjected during a brief pause in our conversation. We were all at the sink now, Ian rinsing the dishes under a spray of water and Joshua drying, with me sitting across on the barstool because I’d been instructed to just sit there and look pretty by Ian when I offered to help. Sometimes he was chauvinistic, sometimes he was sweet, and often times he came across chauvinistic when he was trying to be sweet.
“Shoot.”
“If someone works up the courage to ask you out, and you deny them, is the likelihood of said person asking you out again completely non-existent? Or is there still a chance?”
Joshua lifted his shoulders in a shrug, swiping the flour sack towel over the last set of utensils. “Depends.”
I almost went all Dumb and Dumber on him and recited, ‘So you’re saying there’s a chance!’ but instead I bit the side of my cheek, nearly piercing the fleshy inside and said, “Depends on what?”
“On the person. Or both people, actually,” Ian continued, but it didn’t feel like he was stealing Joshua’s words, just adding to them like they were on the same wavelength, a ride of thoughts and feelings. “Depends on if the person is worth fighting for, and if the other is a fighter. That’s the best case scenario.”
Right. I’d figured as much. But I hadn’t figured out if either of those two options were true for Leo and me. “What is the average scenario? Because it feels a little ambitious to shoot for best case. I don’t want to be an over achiever.”
“The average scenario is that no one likes being rejected, so chances are slim that whoever this girl is—” Ian tossed me a knowing wink, and continued, “—will get asked out by said guy again.”
“Yeah, that seems about right.” My hope plummeted in my stomach, making it roll like those Bingo cages. At least I thought it was my hope—could’ve been the moo shoo pork repeating on me. Acid slid up my esophagus, which made me feel pathetic because this wasn’t the type of information to actually get sick over. Maybe Mr. Wong didn’t get it right this time. I pushed the palm of my hand to my abdomen to ease the sharp, sudden pain that burned in my gut, like cut glass shredding my insides.
“She might not get asked out again, but she could get hired.”
I gagged a little. “What?” My mind spun in wild confusion and my stomach pretty much did the same. “What did you say?”
“You doubted my job seeking skills?” I still had no clue what Ian was referring to, and the nausea filling my body like a noxious gas made it all that more challenging to focus on his words and their actual meanings. Somewhere, my brain detached from the rest of my body and all I could focus on was the physical pain that loomed in my lower half. “I got you a job, Love.”
“Where?” I had to resort to one-word interactions because if I added any extra, it would be more than just words to spew from my mouth. In an instant, I had become completely sick to my stomach, and it took a lot of intentional deep breathing and deliberate swallowing to keep the contents of my dinner pushed down where they belonged.
“I showed Leo one of your sketches during the shoot today. They’re in the market for a new wine label designer.” He smiled proudly as he waited for my expression, that excited look of anticipation when you watched someone open a truly great present. Unfortunately, I couldn’t offer what he hoped to see because my faced was screwed up so tightly in an effort to keep from puking my guts out. “You’ve been hired, Jules.”
My slow nodding turned quickly into a full body shudder, and I ripped myself off of the barstool and hightailed it to the bathroom, just in time to flip open the toilet lid and choke out the dinner that had been so viciously attacking my insides. Sweaty, confused, and increasingly lightheaded, I slumped onto the cool tile floor and allowed the frigid temperature to wash over me.
Then it all went black.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Riding in an ambulance was never any fun. Even less so when it was in the jam-packed streets of New York City. What should have taken fewer than five resulted in a forty-three minute detour filled with questions like, “Ma’am, do you still have your appendix?” like maybe I had misplaced it somewhere along the way, accidentally left it on the subway, or perhaps even donated it to science, and the paramedics poked at my skin enough to leave me feeling like an abused pincushion.
By the time I arrived at Mercy Health and was ushered into my own curtained off portion of the overpopulated emergency room, I was about a quart low of bodily fluid and looked like I was ready to fill in as an extra on the latest vampire movie set. I generally liked vampires, so the thought actually got me a little deliriously excited. My skin held a ghostly pallor and my eyes were webbed with red vessels that crossed over all the typically white portions. I looked like death warmed over, and to say I felt even that good was being incredibly generous.
The piercing pain that was attacking my right lower side continued again, and I clawed at my skin with the sharp ridges of my nails to divert some of the discomfort.
“Shh,” Ian breathed against my scalp, cradling my head between his hands. I wasn’t sure if he was the one rocking me, or if that was something I’d unintentionally started on my own, but he leaned in with me each time my body shook to absorb the pain. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
I could see Joshua standing behind him, peering over a shoulder with a strained look in his eye like pieces my physical agony had been transferred to him as well. That he was still here with Ian and me and it was 2:47 in the morning proved he was an absolute keeper. I’d have to tell Ian that once my ability to use my mouth for actual speaking returned. Right now all that came out of it was groaning, followed with an occasional gasp or pitiful yelp.
“The good news is...” a person who I assumed had to be a doctor said before even sweeping the curtain back to address us, “...it’s not your appendix.” When the owner of t
he voice appeared, I could instantly see that this man delivering my diagnosis had to be Joshua’s father. “Dr. Torkleson.” He had the same friendly eyes and the tone of their voices was nearly identical. I remembered Joshua saying he was a surgeon though, and that realization sparked an immediate panic in me. I really wanted to keep all of my organs in my body today. “It is, however, a ruptured ovarian cyst. Do you have a history of those?”
I hadn’t, and it made me feel like a complete wuss to think that I’d been in such great amounts of pain over something as small as a cyst. Though my dad had a kidney stone once and likened it to pushing a bowling ball through a straw. That sounded all kinds of awful, and the visual tattooed in my brain was equally as horrifying. This experience was nowhere on that scale—neither the kidney stone scale, nor the kidney stone visualization scale.
I shook my head at Dr. Torkleson. “No, I haven’t. Not that I know of, at least.” The twisting pain started to pass and I tried to hard focus on his words. They floated out in front of me and I had to intentionally filter them into my ear canal and up to my brain. Whatever drugs they’d given me were amazing. I’d have to snag some of these for home.
“They can be excruciating and are often mistaken for appendicitis. It’s a good thing you came in here because a ruptured cyst can, in extremely severe instances, lead to internal bleeding. This didn’t happen in your case, thank goodness.”
I felt Ian’s hands curl over mine, even though mine were tucked under the thin sheet draped over me. It was absolutely freezing in here. I welcomed the warmth and comfort his palms provided.
“We’ll prescribe you some medication to help dull the pain, but the worst of it is definitely over. I’ll send in a nurse to discharge you, but please, do not hesitate to call or follow up if you have any concerns.”
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