“Good afternoon, class.” Professor Seyforth entered through the door and threw her hands into the air in a grand gesture. She wore one of those flowing dresses I loved so much. Maybe I should go shopping after class today. Maybe I should ditch all of these moody girl clothes and pick up something a bit more carefree. Something with a little more spirit. I could use that.
“Only three more sessions and our time together will be over,” our professor said. There was a mix of cheers and groans as she placed her belongings at her large wooden desk and began walking up and down the aisles like she always did. She ignored those that protested and continued speaking. “For your next few compositions, I want you to develop a theme. It can be a word. It can be phrase. A feeling or emotion. But I want you to get used to the idea of titling your work. There are very few museum pieces that don’t have a title of some kind. Yours should not be the exception, since I plan on viewing artwork from each and every one of you in a gallery one day soon.” She flashed a proud smile.
That was something new for me. I seldom labeled my art because I honestly just wasn’t that creative when it came to words. I usually just let the drawings speak for themselves.
“Our model is running a few minutes late, so feel free to pull out your sketchpads and continue working on your piece from Monday until they arrive.”
The crinkling and fluttering of paper echoed around me as I flipped in my notebook to the hands I started drawing earlier in the week. I couldn’t get the perspective right on them, and the left one looked particularly craggily and crooked. More of a hook than an actual hand.
That gave me an idea.
I quickly began swiping the eraser over the fingers in question until only a shadow of their existence remained and a pile of pink rubber took their place. I let my own fingers take over, shaping and blending to swap out the original hand with a hook that snaked from the wrist in a curved J shape. A little like Captain Hook, but not in cartoon form.
“Very interesting, Julie,” Professor Seyforth acknowledged with a nod. Her floral perfume stung my nose as she leaned closer to examine my work. “What do you call this one?”
“Hooked?” I said it as a question because I hadn’t thought to name it yet. I was still working on getting that reflective glint of the gold to come across on the paper.
“A very literal interpretation, yes,” she suggested. “I challenge you to come up with a less direct label for today’s work. Something that forces your viewer to see deeper into the piece.”
I nodded and twisted my pencil between my fingers, rolling it back and forth. Though I liked where this composition was going, I still had work to do to get it right where I wanted it.
I was so lost in my efforts that I didn’t notice our model slip in and settle onto the stool just a few feet away. I was almost there. Just a few more shadows and I think I’d be able to put the sketch back into my bag feeling satisfied.
Drawing was a lot like writing—there were often times when thoughts were blocked, but there were just as many when they poured out of you freely, a cascade of inspiration. I’d learned to never cut short those creative juices once they started flowing. If I did, I never knew just when they would start back up again.
So I was actually a little annoyed when Professor Seyforth instructed us to pull out our drawing boards for today’s model and put our current work away. My creation was so close to being completed.
And my heart was so close to stopping.
When he swiveled on the stool, rotating to catch my eyes, I almost fell out of my chair.
The room spun.
My head spun.
My stomach rolled and the floor fell out from underneath me.
His eyes were tight, his brow furrowed.
I had no control over my own features. I had no idea what look was drawn onto my face. It had to be one of shock. Maybe anger. Surprise and hesitation.
Leo was unreadable, and he didn’t blink. Not even once.
“Class, I’d like to introduce you to our model for the day, Leo Carducci.”
Several students muttered “Hi Leo,” while others hardly acknowledged the man seated in the very center of the room. At least they didn’t acknowledge him as a person, only as a subject whose likeness they would spend the next hour transforming into lead and paper. He didn’t mean anything to them.
He meant something to me.
There were so many things I wanted to do in this moment and none of them involved a pencil and paper.
I wanted to know why he put me on that plane.
I wanted to know how he could go without any sort of contact—any sort of communication—and then one day just show up in the middle of my college art class.
I wanted to know how he could sit there and look at me the way he did without speaking, without offering an explanation.
Then I got my answers.
My heart hammered as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt. I knew this course was labeled Anatomic Drawing 201. That it involved anatomy. Leo was our model, so today’s assignment would involve his anatomy. It suddenly got unbearably hot in here. Sweltering. I attempted a swallow, but my throat was dry and parched and my tongue scraped along the inside of my mouth as though it were gravel.
I was green with envy at the thought of his coworker’s lips on his straw. Leo’s naked body on the pages of thirty of my peers didn’t make me feel any better. My body trembled in frustrated, jealous anger. My pencil nearly snapped in two within my clenched fist.
In one agonizingly slow, almost painful swoop, Leo curled the fabric of his shirt up and over his abdomen. Those rippled muscles peeked out from under the fabric and I could feel my pulse rise, could feel my body tingle with familiarity. But as he did so, he turned his back to me, almost walling me off. I don’t know why I was surprised by it—he’d emotionally walled me off already. Of course he would continue to do it physically. Why would this be any different? Could it be any different?
For the first portion of the class, things stayed this way. Luckily, Leo only removed his shirt before sitting down to his position on the stool. His jeans still hung on his hips and so far my classmates only had the privilege of seeing his carved chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and muscular biceps.
After about thirty minutes, I had his back formed on the paper in front of me. The sharp jut of his shoulder blades. The narrow taper of his waist and the curved muscles that existed where most had love handles. I was almost able to convince myself that it wasn’t Leo, that it was just some other male model like all the others I’d drawn throughout the course. Just a body. Nothing inside. But I’d memorized that body, even in just the few times I’d seen it. I’d felt it. He was ingrained on my fingers. So it didn’t take long to transfer what had already been burned into my mind onto paper. In fact, this was the easiest assignment I’d had all year.
So when Professor Seyforth asked Leo to rotate his position so the other half of the class could have the chance to draw his front side, I figured I was ready for it.
But I wasn’t.
Neither was Leo.
I wasn’t ready for the deep slices cut into his skin, held together by thick black thread like he was some child’s torn teddy bear, hastily repaired by an unskilled seamstress.
Nothing could have prepared me for the gruesome lines along his neck, across the stomach, and under his left arm to match the scar he already bore on the other side.
Five total incisions spread across his upper half, some longer than others, some more jagged and thick.
But they were all fresh, the healing barely beginning. Each marking was highlighted by a two-inch border, like a protective bandage that once pressed to the skin had been quickly ripped off, leaving the stinging red flesh underneath.
He’d bought himself a few weeks, and even thirty more minutes with his back to me during the first portion of class. But Leo’s time to hide had officially run out.
And my time to be angry had completely vanished.
It was all on display now. His cancer. His new scars. His emotion as the tears slid down his jaw, dripping onto the fabric of his jeans. Leo pushed his palm to his eyes, pressing them in like he could scold them away. But it didn’t do any good. They continued to slip down his face, though I’m not sure anyone noticed. They were all so busy replicating his body onto their papers that so many failed to see the true meaning in their subject.
Professor Seyforth challenged us to name our work. Well, I didn’t have much work to show yet since my pencil still hung over my paper, but I had that title she’d requested. I had that theme because my subject had challenged his viewer to see deeper into him. Right now, it was almost as though I could even see through Leo. It was all so transparent.
I understood.
He didn’t look away from me. The energy charged between his eyes and mine felt so strong I wondered if anyone else could sense it or feel it. If somehow we created our own vortex that would pull everything in because it seemed crazy to me that they wouldn’t be able to feel the connection between us. It was an intensity off the charts.
But no, they couldn’t. They weren’t paying any attention to us. They had no clue.
Maybe I’d been guilty of the same in the past. Of drawing these models that filtered in and out of the studio as though they were stone, forgetting there were more pieces to them, pieces that made them human. They had pasts and presents and futures, but all I conveyed was the fact they were made up of muscle and bone and flesh.
The anatomy of a person was so much more than that.
Sure, we walked around like statues, keeping up misleading façades of perfection. Only letting certain people in, picking and choosing who was safe and who wasn’t. Deciding who got to peel away those superficial layers and see the mess inside. Though Leo sat in front of a classroom full of students, I knew he was choosing me. I was the one he wanted to let in. Yes, they could see his scars and could guess at what they might mean, but no one really knew.
I knew.
The cancer was back. It had spread. Those percentages he’d built his life around were probably even lower now, if the additional scars were any indication. I didn’t know, and truthfully, it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that I was 100% certain I loved this man.
If we only had five years together or five months or even just five minutes, I would take it. His battle was now my battle, whether he intended that to be the case or not. I wasn’t about to let him fight alone. Selfish bastard for thinking he could do it by himself anyway. This girl wouldn’t sit in the bunker when the man she loved was out on the front lines. Had he forgotten how incredibly skilled I was with a slingshot? I was completely ready and beyond willing to take up this fight with Leo. We were going to kick cancer’s booty together one treatment at a time.
I laughed to myself and hoped he didn’t see. I don’t think he did. He was doing that thing where you looked up at the ceiling to keep your tears tucked behind your eyelids. You would think it would break my heart to see him like this, and in a way it did, but at the same time I could feel the shattered pieces of it fitting back together.
I started to draw.
That back I’d sketched earlier lacked any real emotion so I scrapped it altogether. Leo was more than this physically perfect man. My drawing had to depict that.
For the next half hour I duplicated him on the page. When my pencil dug into the paper to carve out his incisions and the stitches bound around them, I could feel the tightening in my chest and the strain in my brow. My body physically hurt to recreate his hurt. Just like with Ian and that impulsive tattoo session, it was painful to see someone else in pain.
But sometimes, in hurting alongside someone, it also took a little of that pain away. I hoped that’s what I was doing with Leo. I hoped I could take just an ounce of it from him.
After about thirty more minutes, Professor Seyforth broke into our focus with a soft clearing of her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Carducci, for being today’s model. Class, let’s show our appreciation for Leo, shall we?” she nodded toward us, beginning a slow clap.
Everyone joined in, and I did as well, though I felt like a machine, just applauding because I was programmed to. Because what I really wanted to do was walk up to him and kiss away each tear that stained his face in a trail of salt. I wanted to press my lips to each mark on his chest and torso and neck. I wanted to wrap my arms around his body and curl into him to physically transfer his pain to myself, absorbing him, absorbing it.
But I couldn’t do that here. So I just gave him a small smile, one that was probably more visible in my eyes than on my lips.
Leo returned it with his own and mouthed, “I’m so sorry.”
I huffed a silent laugh. He said it like he actually had something to do with it.
None of this was his fault. The cancer, the need to hide, the feeling that he had to protect me from this newest reality.
I’d already forgiven him for it all, hadn’t he known that? It was a newly-developed fault of mine.
Leo stood from the stool and pulled his shirt back over his head. He winced as his stomach contracted and he shut his eyes. Then, just as suddenly as he came into the room, he slipped out of it. The creak of the door sent chills across my scalp and I shuddered. I wanted to race after him, but there was still fifteen minutes left in class. I couldn’t go now. But I supposed he knew that.
And maybe he needed the time to himself. I’d give him that space, but if he needed anymore after that, he was out of luck. I wasn’t going to be easy to get rid of anymore. I’d like to see him try.
“Would any volunteers like to share their piece?” our professor asked. She looked out across the room over the top of her glasses. I’d already started tucking my supplies back into my bag. I decided to keep them there. I had no intention of sharing with the class. I’d just spent the past hour sharing Leo. That felt like enough for one day. “Just stand and tell us the name of your work first.”
“I’ll go,” a guy with piercings and staples and hooks and bars jutting out of every exposed patch of skin said. He scooted his chair back and lifted his paper from the desk, tucking his wispy hair behind his ear. His image was dark, nearly the entire surface coated in deep shadows and severe lines. Leo’s body looked more geometric than fluid and the lightning bolt-like cuts that crossed over the page made me cower and want to look away. I did. I couldn’t help myself. “I call it Cutting Board.”
“Very nice interpretation, Colton.” It was nice? There was nothing nice about it. It was horribly graphic and sensationalized and made me want to tear it to shreds or rip out a few of Colton’s piercings just so he could feel a little pain for himself. Had he never been hurt before? “Anyone else?”
Four or five other students rose from their seats to share their sketches. Titles like Wounded and Broken Body and Unlikely Victim filtered out of their mouths as they held up their drawings that coincided with those words. Some of them clearly knew who Leo was; others might have only seen him in the most recent edition of Modern Matters. But it didn’t matter. No one knew him like I did.
Though I’d already put everything away, I couldn’t let this gross misrepresentation of Leo go on any longer. It just wasn’t right. I lifted my hand up and Professor Seyforth nodded my direction.
“Julie,” she said, waving me on. “Go right ahead.”
I pulled in a breath that filled my lungs and then blew it out through my mouth. My paper shook between my fingers and my voice rattled with a similar vibration. There was a tear balancing at the corner of my eye that I was determined to keep there, but as my voice shook out of me, it slid down my face. I sniffed and said, “This is my interpretation and I call it My David, My Warrior.” Just as impulsively as I’d popped up, I hunkered back into my seat and kept my eyes down.
“It’s beautiful, Julie.”
A couple other students nodded, probably just to kiss up because the majority of the class remained silent. Confused possibly. Maybe question
ing my sanity and stability. Some looked like they expected me to have an emotional breakdown of sorts as several more of my tears joined the first renegade one.
But the class was wrong in waiting for that to happen. I’d already been broken down emotionally.
This was me being put back together, couldn’t they see that?
Maybe not, because sometimes—more often than not—life wasn’t always what it seemed.
In fact, I didn’t think it ever was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Another dark lock twisted to the ground.
I tried not to look at it because if I angled my head any direction other than directly forward, Ian would yell at me again. He’d already done more yelling than a Little League dad benched on the sidelines during playoffs. My ears sort of hurt from all of it—and my feelings too—so I chose not to budge.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked once more, but if he were to stop right now, it would be a serious hack job. The scissors were suspended just over my scalp.
“Didn’t I already tell you?” I tried to keep still, but it was impossible at this point. That first glass of wine buzzed through my bloodstream. I scooped the hairbrush from the bathroom counter and thrust it toward my mouth as I sang, “I’m bringing pixie baaaaack...them other girls don’t know how to acccct...”
Joshua, who had been in the kitchen cleaning up dinner, shouted out over the hum of the dishwasher, “Take it to the chorus!”
“Go on hair, go ahead be gone with it,” I continued, channeling my best Justin Timberlake circa 2009. Ian wasn’t amused. “Comb it to the back, go ahead be gone with it.” Unfortunately, even my best attempt was just an extremely mediocre karaoke version. A girl could try. And a drunk girl could try even harder. I gave it my all. “Get your pixie on, go ahead be gone with it. Get your pixie on.”
Joshua stood in the doorway, as if he heard my body’s unspoken plea for more alcohol. He held out another round. “VIP?”
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