by Anne Calhoun
Phrased that way, she couldn’t say no.
Outside the gallery, a velvet rope manned by Derek and one of his friends provided security to cordon off the few paparazzi who’d gathered in the hopes of a picture worth selling. But to Arden’s immense relief, the world had moved on from MacCarren, and from her and Seth. Guilty pleas entered by both her father and brother and turning over the foundation’s assets had worked to bring the whole sordid chapter to a quick, if ignominious, end. She was old news now, and happy to stay that way.
They chained their bikes to one of the racks springing up around the city to facilitate alternative transportation. Once inside the gallery, Arden ducked into Edith’s office and exchanged the tights and boots for her heels. Suitably attired, she rejoined Seth upstairs.
The room held a few familiar faces, Betsy and Nick, Sally and Libby and Micah, people connected with them. Ryan was there, talking quietly with Daniel Logan; Simone Demarchelier was avidly discussing couture invitations with Tilda Davies and the assistant Arden recognized from her ill-fated baby-shower shopping trip, while the gallery owner, Edith, chatted up Sheba Clark. Phil was there, and his mother, and a couple of men and women Seth had met through Phil’s former military support group. It was a friendly crowd, no critics or dealers, just a small celebration. Edith’s assistants circulated with glasses of champagne and tiny appetizers. The drawings were arranged by student, a final piece surrounded by their earliest attempts and other drawings made outside of class. Libby’s were precise, Sally’s earnest, Betsy’s full of exuberant energy. To fill out the spaces on the wall, Micah exhibited a couple of the drawings he had made while his students worked. They were far more adept and interesting than any of the students’. Arden made a note to ask him whether or not she could purchase one or two that captured flashes of Seth’s strength and vulnerability.
“Is it strange to see yourself on the walls like this?” she asked Seth as they walked past renditions of him in various nude poses.
“Not really. It’s what happens if you model for students or artists. At some point in time, you’re going to see a drawing of your naked body on a wall.”
They came to Arden’s selections, displayed at the back of the room. “Do you want me to look?” Seth asked in a low voice. He stood solid and unmoving in the middle of the gallery, his hands wrapped around hers, his gaze fixed on hers. “I don’t have to.”
“Yes,” she said. “I want you to look.”
He wove his fingers through hers and walked to the back of the space. Choosing from all of her sketches wasn’t easy. She’d chosen some that, to her mind, revealed their relationship more completely than the video: him in bed, sheet low on his lap; him sitting in the chair with one elbow on the armrest, one finger stretched to his temple, the others under his jaw, eyes dark with desire. These pictures and more spiraled around her final exhibition work, and that was the one that halted Seth’s breathing.
She’d drawn him hunkered down on his heels, face turned to the viewer, but his eyes focused on a detail she’d added: a picture, held in his right hand. She knew what was on that picture, four men, three of them gone, leaving the fourth to forge a future in the fire of loss and pain and suffering. She wished, as she did every time she looked at the picture, that the figure would look up at her.
The real man standing beside her did just that. “You see me,” he said, almost inaudibly. “How did you see me?”
“Seth,” she said quietly. “Who you are radiates from you and touches everyone around you. I would have been blind not to see it.”
“They’re very good,” Micah said. They turned to find him behind them, arms folded, enigmatic smile on his face. “You’re wasted on Wall Street.”
“But necessary. Thank you,” she added, confident in her choices.
“Have you seen Seth’s contributions?”
She looked up at Seth, eyebrows lifted. He smiled back, a flash of relief that he’d kept this surprise from her. “No,” she said to Micah, who tipped his head to lead her to the back corner.
Then it was her turn to stop breathing.
Seth’s drawings were far more complex and nuanced than anything drawn by the students; both the art teacher and the model had skills she couldn’t hope to attain in a decade of practice. There were pictures of Brian, Doug, and Manny; pictures of Afghanis; rough, quick sketches of pilots; a Marine sitting in the doorway of a helicopter; a flag bearer holding the regimental colors during a ramp ceremony. There were pictures of her, one in her gold suit, her hair witchy and tumbled; another with the gold transformed into a warrior princess breastplate and greaves, complete with a shield and a sword and a Fuck-with-me-at-your-own-risk look in her eyes that made her laugh. “I want that one,” she said. “I’m going to frame it and hang it in my office.”
“Not for sale,” Seth said immediately. “But I’m happy to make it a permanent loan.”
“I like the sound of that,” she said.
When the party petered out, they biked home in silence. Seth gently, absently rubbed his chest through the sweater as they stored the bikes in the utility room below street level, then walked upstairs. “What’s wrong?” Arden asked.
“Nothing that won’t heal,” he said. “Come upstairs and I’ll show you.”
In their bedroom he eased the sweater over his head, then stood while she unbuttoned his shirt. She spread the fronts to reveal a white bandage taped to his chest, covering the empty space over his heart. One corner of her mouth lifted as she flicked a quick look up at him.
“Go ahead,” he said, “but easy with the tape. This is one time when ripping it off quickly will hurt worse.”
She gently pulled back the tape, starting with the upper right-hand corner and peeling down and away. The skin underneath was reddened, angry, lessening the contrast of the dark blue ink. She blinked, not believing her eyes. He’d gotten his final-tour tattoo, in the space he’d saved for it, over his heart.
It was the study she’d done of him, Doug, Manny, Brian, the picture she’d given him in Neil’s office, the one he’d finally looked at on the dirt road. He’d inked her art on his skin. She swallowed hard, and blinked back stinging tears.
“While I live, they live,” he said. “And you drew it, so it’s like you’re a part of us, too.”
At that, the tears fell. “Seth,” she whispered in a choked voice.
With his thumb, he swiped the tears away, then kissed her. “They would have liked you,” he said. “Respected you. You’re a fighter.”
He’d seen her when so few others had. “It looks like it hurts,” she said.
He shrugged, but carefully. “It goes away in a few days. Skin’s resilient.”
Mindful of the bandage, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, looking up into his eyes.
“Arden,” he said seriously, “I love you. I know it’s fast, but I know the same way I knew with my friends. It’s a bond you can’t explain to anyone else, but—”
“I know,” she said. “You don’t have to explain that to me, because I know. I love you, too.”
Wrapped securely in his arms, she let the silence settle over her. She breathed in, breathed out, and knew she was alive. She breathed in, breathed out, and knew peace.
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